Mr. Vivian Howard, as standing for that literature, took the implied compliment with a bow. “I congratulate you, Mr. Bitt.”
“Now, the Daily is young,” Mr. Bitt earnestly continued. “The Daily has yet to make its way. If your 'Amy Martin' starts in normal circumstances a week hence, it will mean that this contribution to our highest literature will fall only to a comparatively small circle of people. But if—but if, as I had hoped, we had morning by morning attracted more and more readers by the great interest taken in your loss, 'Amy Martin' would then have introduced our best fiction to a public twice or thrice as large as our present circulation represents.”
“You mean—?” the great author inquired.
“I mean,” Mr. Bitt told him, “that for this reason I cannot but regret that the excitement aroused should disappear with our issue of to-morrow. I mean, Mr. Howard, that for the reason I have named I do think it is almost our duty—our duty, for the reason I have named—to conceal the cat's recovery for—er—for a day or so.”
Mr. Bitt blew his nose violently to conceal his agitation. This man was now in the precise centre of the delicate ground; was in considerable fear that it might open and swallow him.
But Mr. Vivian Howard's reply made that ground of rock-like solidity.
“As you put the matter, Mr. Bitt, I must say I agree. It would be false modesty on my part to pretend I do not recognise the worth of 'Amy Martin,' and the desirability of introducing it as widely as possible. Certainly that could best have been accomplished by Abishag not having been recovered so soon. But as it is—I do not see what can be done. You do not, of course, suggest deliberate deception of the public?”
“Certainly not!” cried Mr. Bitt with virtuous warmth. Since this was precisely what he did suggest and most earnestly desired, he repeated his denial: “Certainly not! At the same time—”
“One moment,” Mr. Vivian Howard interrupted. “This cat was obviously stolen by someone and placed in the hut where it was found. Very well. We prosecute. We prosecute, and I could give you every morning my views on the guilt or otherwise—”
Mr. Bitt shook his head. “I had thought of that. It won't do. It won't do, Mr. Howard. For one thing, a rigorous prosecution and sentence might create bad feeling against the paper. You have no idea how curious the public is in that way. For another, you, as the injured party, ought not to comment; and certainly I could not publish your views. The matter would be sub judice directly arrest was made; and I once got into very serious trouble over a sub judice matter—very serious trouble indeed. I shall not touch the law, Mr. Howard. It is unwise. At the same time, I think the thief should be made to suffer—be given a thorough fright. Now, if we inform the public that practically our Special Commissioner has his hand on the cat—which will be perfectly true—and is almost certain as to the identity of the thief—if we keep this up for the few days necessary for the publication of those magnificent articles of yours on 'What my Loss means to Me,' we shall be accomplishing three excellent objects. We shall be terrifying an evil-doer—we may take it for granted he reads the Daily; we shall be giving the public those articles which most certainly ought not to be lost to literature; and we shall be widening the sphere of influence of 'Amy Martin.'”