“Join the searchers. Scour the grounds. Search every shrub. Climb every tree.”
The agonised man led downstairs. “I found the window open,” he moaned. “Night by night, year in year out, I have shut it. Impossible that I forgot. If I forgot, the Rose is in the garden or in the vicinity. If I did not forget, the window was forced—the Rose was stolen. A detective shall decide.”
George grew quite cold. Employment of a detective had not occurred to him. They were at the front door. He put a hand on Mr. Marrapit's arm. “Oh, not a detective. Don't get a detective.”
“If need be I will get forty detectives. I will blacken the countryside with detectives.”
George grew quite hot. “Uncle, let us keep this private. Leave it with me. Rely on me. I will find your cat.”
“Into the garden,” cried Mr. Marrapit. “Join the searchers. They have failed once. Lead, animate, encourage.”
“And you won't get a detective?”
Mr. Marrapit did not reply. He had opened the hall door; Mr. Fletcher in the middle distance approached moodily.
Mr. Marrapit thrust out a hand. “Back! Back!” he cried hoarsely.
Wearily Mr. Fletcher gave answer. “It's no use, Mr. Marrapit. It's no good saying 'back.' I've been back. I've been back and I've been front and I've been both sides. I've looked here, I've looked there; I've looked up, I've looked down. I'm giddy with looking.” He approached; stood before them. Woe heavily draped herself about this man.