This was precisely what George wished to know. Terror of hearing some hideous calamity stayed him from putting the question. He gave a pained smile. “Oh, I'm all right. I'm a bit fagged, that's all. The strain of this search, you know, the—”
“I know!” cried Bill enthusiastically. “I know. You've been splendid, old man. Finding out a clue like this and pluckily carrying it through all by yourself. By Jove, it's splendid of you!—especially when you've no reason to do much for your uncle after the way in which he's treated you. I admire you, George. By Gad, I do admire you!”
“Not at all!” George advised him. “By no means, old fellow.” He wiped his brow; his mental suffering was considerable.
“I say, I can see you're pretty bad, old man,” Bill continued. “Never mind, I'm here to help you now. That's what I've come for.”
George felt that something very dreadful indeed was at hand. “How did you find out where I was?” he asked.
“From old Marrapit.”
“Marrapit? Why, but my uncle won't let you come within a mile of him.”
“Ah! that's all over now.” A very beautiful look came into Bill's eyes; tenderness shaded his voice: “George, old man, if I can track down the hound who has stolen this cat your uncle has practically said that he will agree to my engagement with Margaret.”
George tottered across the room; pressed his head against the cold window-pane. Here was the calamity. He had thought of taking Bill into his confidence—how do so now?
“I say, you do look bad, old man,” Bill told him.