The golden head and the head of brown lifted simultaneously from the paper; stared towards Bill, pacing, smoking.
Tremendous possibilities flickered in George's mind; made his voice husky. “Bill,” he asked, “do you believe that cat is this Abishag—Vivian Howard's Abishag?”
Bill nodded absently. This man's thoughts were afar—revolving this situation he had named “licker.” “Look at the description,” he said. “Look at the cat. It knows its name, doesn't it? I've seen a life-size painting of Abishag. It's a cert.”
George dropped upon the sofa; his thoughts, too, rushed afar.
Tremendous possibilities danced a wild jig in his Mary's pretty head; trembled her voice. “Oh, Mr. Wyvern!” she appealed, “what does it mean? What does it mean—for us?”
“It's a licker,” Bill told her. “It's a fair licker.”
Mary dropped by her George's side; to his her thoughts rushed.
Presently Bill threw away his cigarette; faced George. He said slowly: “Mrs. Major must have stolen this cat, George. But how did she get it? She's been at Herons' Holt the last week.”
Mary gave a little jump. “Oh, Mr. Wyvern, she went up to town on Monday till Tuesday.”
Bill struck a hand upon the table. “That fixes it. By gum, that fixes it! I tell you what it is, George. I tell you what it is. I believe—yes, I believe she'd seen this cat before, knew it was like the Rose, and meant to have palmed it off on old Marrapit herself so as to get him to take her back. Margaret told me all about her getting the sack. I bet my life that's it. By gum, what a splash for the Daily!” And upon this fine thought the young man stood with sparkling eyes.