“Barley water!” gasped Mr. Marrapit. “Barley water!”
George sprang to the sideboard where always stood a jug of Mr. Marrapit's favourite refreshment. Mr. Marrapit drank, agitation rattling the glass against his teeth.
“Think what it means to you, sir,” persuaded Mr. Brunger, a little alarmed at the effects of his proposal.
The detective's tone had a very earnest note, for he was thinking with considerable gratification what the hundred pounds would mean to himself. On previous occasions he had urged rewards from his clients, put Mr. Issy Jago in the way of securing them, and paid that gentleman a percentage.
“Think what it means to you,” he repeated. “What is a hundred pounds or thrice that sum against the restoration of your cat? Come, what is it, sir?”
“Ruin,” answered Mr. Marrapit, gulping barley water. “Ruin.”
Mr. Brunger urged gravely: “Oh, don't say that, sir. Think what our dumb pets are to us. I've got a blood-'ound at home myself that I'd give my life for if I lost—gladly. Surely they're more to us, our faithful friends, than mere—mere—”
“Pelf,” supplied George, on a thin squeak that was shot out by the excitement of seeing events so lustily playing his hand.
“Mere pelf,” adopted Mr. Brunger.
Mr. Marrapit gulped heavily at the barley water; set his gaze upon a life-size portrait in oils of his darling Rose; with fine calm announced: “If it must be, it must be.”