“Why, the clue—your clue to this cat?”
“Oh, the clue—the clue. Yes, I'll tell you all about that. Just wait here a moment.” He rose with the basket; moved to the door.
“What on earth have you got in that basket?” Bill asked.
“Eggs,” George told him impressively. “Eggs for my uncle.”
“You must have a thundering lot in a basket that size.”
“Three or four hundred,” George said. “Three or four hundred eggs.”
He spoke in the passionless voice of one in a dream. Indeed he was in a dream. This horrible contingency had so set him whirling that of clear thought he was incapable. Moving to his bedroom he thrust the basket beneath the bed; came out; locked the door; took the key; returned to Bill.
Bill came over and slapped him on the back. “Expect you're surprised to see me?” he cried. “Isn't this ripping, old man?”
“Stunning!” said George. “Absolutely stunning.” He sank on a chair.
Bill was perplexed. “You don't look best pleased, old man. What's up?”