“Or the least danger,” Bill affirmed. “He's a kind of friend of mine—did I mention that, sir? I'll fix it up in a minute.”
He stepped briskly to George; closed the door behind him.
George said faintly: “Say it quick, Bill. Quick.”
“You've got it, old man. Got it.”
George rose to his feet; stretched his arms aloft; wildly waved them. The tremendous shout for which he opened his mouth was stayed upon his lips by Bill's warning finger. He hurled himself on a couch; rolled in ecstasy.
Rapidly Bill outlined the proposals. Then he struck a heavy hand upon George's shoulder. “And I've got it too!” he cried in an exultant whisper. “I've got it too! I've got Margaret!”
“Margaret! However—?”
“Like this. Plain as a fiddle-stick. To-morrow, when we get out this story about practically having our hand on the thief, I shall go bang down to Marrapit with the paper and tell him I know it was Mrs. Major who took the cat. You can imagine the state that'll put 'em both in. Then—then, my boy, I shall say 'Let Margy and me carry on and fix it up forthwith, and I'll promise Mrs. Major shall never hear a word more about the matter.' He'll agree like a shot. The chief's not going to prosecute, you see; so neither Mrs. Major nor you ever will hear a word more. George, we've done it! Done it! You've got your Mary and I've got my Margy!”
With swelling bosoms, staring eyes, upon this tremendous happening the two young men clasped hands; stood heavily breathing. These men were glimpsing heaven.
When they unlocked, George said: “There's one thing, Bill. Go in and tell that precious pair they can hold over the discovery till they please and that I shall never breathe a word. But tell 'em this: I don't agree unless I have my cheque right away.”