The Rape Of The Rose.
I.
Bill was away from home, the maid who answered the door told George; Mrs. Wyvern was out; the Professor was in his study.
George found the great biologist warming his chilly old bones in a vast armchair before a fire.
With a twinkling of his sky-blue eyes that spoke to pleasant temper, the Professor greeted George; nodded him into an opposite seat.
“I am reading a letter,” he announced. This man spoke very slowly, never abbreviated; had now an air of child-like happiness. “It is a letter from Bill.”
George said: “Ah, what is Bill doing? I've not seen him for days.”
Professor Wyvern chuckled away and fumbled with clumsy old fingers among the closely-written sheets on his lap. One he selected and inclined towards George. Its upper half was thickly lettered in heavy red type, prominent among which there bawled forth in wavy capitals, thickly underscored:
“THE DAILY.” EVERYBODY'S PAPER. PRICE 1/2d.
“Hot stuff!” George cried. “Is old Bill on the staff of the Daily?”