“Forget that, sir. Forget it.”
“That is my desire. Misery wails through the corridors. In her presence let us bury private differences. In this appalling catastrophe every help is required. You have youth, manhood; you should be invaluable.”
George declared: “I mean to be. I will not rest until the Rose is restored.”
This was perfectly true, as he was to discover.
“Commendable,” Mr. Marrapit pronounced. Now that this volunteer was enlisted, Mr. Marrapit discarded supplication, resumed mastery. “While you have searched,” he said, “I have schemed.” He indicated the paper he carried. “These are my plans. Peruse them.”
George read; returned the paper. “If these arrangements do not restore the Rose,” he declared, “nothing will. I see you do not mention my name. I fear you doubted my assistance. I think I will join the—the——“—he glanced at the paper—“the extra-mural searchers. I know the countryside well. I can go far and fast.”
Mr. Marrapit agreed. “Summon the household,” he commanded.
George called Margaret; the two carried out the order.
In a semicircle the household grouped about their master; from Mrs. Armitage at the one horn to George at the other they took their places—Mrs. Armitage, Clara, Ada, Mr. Fletcher, Frederick, Mary, Margaret, George.
Paper in hand Mr. Marrapit regarded them. He pointed at Frederick.