George struck the stern young man upon the back. “Is that what you're driving at, you old ass? Stole it! D'you suppose I'll ever touch a cat again? That's the infernal cat Mrs. Major left in that hut when she hooked off the Rose. Marrapit told you, didn't he?”
Into a chair Bill collapsed—legs thrust straight before him, head against the cushioned back. He gasped. “George, this is a licker, a fair licker.” Enormously this staggered man swelled as he inhaled a tremendous breath; upon a vast sigh he let it go. “That cat—” he said. He got to his legs and paced the room; astonished, Mary and George regarded him. “That cat—I'll bet my life that's the cat!”
III.
My Mary was trembling before this fearful agitation. For support she took her George's hand. “Oh, Mr. Wyvern!” she cried, “whatever is it? Have we got into another awful trouble through those dreadful, dreadful cats?”
“Look at the Daily,” Bill said. “Look at the Daily. George, give me a cigarette. I must smoke. This is an absolute licker.”
My frightened Mary jumped for the paper where it had fallen; spread it upon the table; opened it. “Oh, George!” she cried. “Oh, George!”; pressed a pretty finger upon these flaming words:
ANOTHER CAT OUTRAGE.
AMAZING STORY.
MR. VIVIAN HOWARD'S FAMOUS PET
STOLEN WHILE BACK TURNED.
“DAILY” OFFER.
500 POUNDS FOR OUR READERS.
My Mary's golden head, my George's head of brown, pressed and nudged as with bulging eyes they read the crisp, telling paragraphs that followed in a column of leaded type.
Readers of the Daily, it appeared, would be astonished to learn that the abduction of Mr. Marrapit's famous cat, the Rose of Sharon—concerning the recovery of which all hope had now been abandoned—had been followed by a similar outrage of a nature even more sensational, more daring.
Mr. Vivian Howard, the famous author and dramatist, whose new novel, “Amy Martin,” Daily readers need not be reminded, was to start in the Daily as a feuilleton on Monday week, had been robbed of his famous cat “Abishag the Shunamite.”