George sprang to his feet; ruddy again of face. “Come on!” he cried. “Bill, if it isn't his Abishag, if there's any hitch, I'll—I'll—oh, Mary, don't build too highly on this, old girl!”
“Shall I come, Georgie?”
George hesitated. “Better not. Better not, if you don't mind. I couldn't bear to see your face if Vivian Howard says it isn't the cat.”
White-faced, between tears and smiles, his Mary waved from the window as George, cat under arm, turned the corner with Bill.
CHAPTER IX
Excursions In A Newspaper Office.
I.
Silent, white and stern of face, occupied with immense thoughts, the young men sat as the cab they had found outside Battersea Park station sped them towards Fleet Street.