II.
Bill rapped upon Mr. Bitt's door; poked in his head at the answering call; motioned my trembling George to wait; stepped over the threshold.
Mr. Bitt sat behind a broad table; before him, deep in an armchair, smoking a cigarette, lay Mr. Vivian Howard.
“Ah! Wyvern,” spoke Mr. Bitt. “Mr. Howard, this is Mr. Wyvern, one of my brightest young men. From to-day he takes in hand this business.”
Mr. Vivian Howard did not rise; stretched a white hand to Bill. This man had an appreciation of the position he had won. This man stood for English literature. Within a wide estimate of public opinion, and within that immense estimate of him that was his own, this man stood for literature. In a manner worthy of his proud standing this man comported himself. The talents that were his belonged to the nation, and very freely he gave them to the people. This man did not deny himself to the crowd as another might have denied himself. Of him it never could be said that he missed opportunity to let the public feed upon him. This man made such opportunities. Where excitement was, there this man, pausing between his novels, would step in. If a murder-trial had the public attention this man would write upon that trial; if interest were fixed upon a trade dispute this man would by some means draw that interest upon himself. Nothing was too small for this man. Walking the public places he did not shrink from recognition; he gladly permitted it. Not once but many times, coming upon a stranger reading one of his novels, he had announced himself; autographed the copy. This man's character was wholly in keeping with his gifts.
Yet beautifully he could preserve the dignity that was his right. Preserving it now, he gave his hand to Bill but did not move his position.
“It is a great pleasure to me to meet you, sir,” Bill told him.
“You have only lately joined the ranks of journalism, Mr. Bitt tells me,” Mr. Vivian Howard graciously replied. “It is the stepping-stone to literature. Never forget that. Never lose sight of that. I shall watch your career with the greatest interest.”
Mr. Bitt broke in a trifle impatiently: “Well, well, we must keep to business just now. Mr. Howard will kindly give us a daily interview, Wyvern, until the feuilleton starts, or until the cat is found. You'd better--”
Bill took a pace back; faced them both. “No need,” he cried in bursting words. “The cat is found!”
The cigarette dropped from Mr. Vivian Howard's lip to his waistcoat. He brushed at it violently; burnt his fingers; brushed again; swore with a ferocity that would have astonished his admirers; sprang to his feet amid a little shower of sparks and cloud of ash. “Found!” he exclaimed; jabbed a burnt finger in his mouth and thickly repeated, “Found!”
Mr. Bitt simultaneously rose. “Found?” cried Mr. Bitt. “What the--”
“I have the finder here,” Bill told them; stepped to the door.
On legs that shook my agitated George advanced.
Mr. Vivian Howard drew forth his suffering finger with a loud pop; made three hasty strides to George; took the cat. “Abishag!” he cried in ecstasy, “Abishag!”
In very gloomy tones Mr. Bitt announced that he was bust. “Well, I'm bust!” he said. “I'm bust. It _is_ your cat, eh?”
Mr. Vivian Howard nodded the head he was bending over his Abishag.
Bill signalled to George a swift wink. George drew a handkerchief; wiped from his face the beaded agony.
Mr. Bitt dropped heavily into his seat. “Of course I'm very glad, Mr. Howard,” he announced stonily. “_Very_ glad. At the same time--at the same _time_--” He turned upon George with a note that was almost savage. “You, sir!” he cried.
George started painfully.
“How the--How did you come to find this cat?”
George forced his pocket handkerchief into his trousers pocket; rammed it down; cleared his throat; ran a finger round the inside of his collar; cleared again; said nothing.
Bill hurried to the rescue. “Like this, sir. Let me tell you. This gentleman was at Paltley Hill, a place on the South-Western. He used to live there. He found the cat in a deserted kind of hut, took charge of it. I happened to meet him and brought him along. By Jove, sir, only published this morning and found within a few hours! It's pretty good, isn't it?”
Mr. Bitt spoke with great disgust. “Pretty _good!_” he cried bitterly. “Pretty _good!_” He had no fit words in which to express his feeling. “Kindly step in there a moment,” he addressed George.
George trembled into the adjoining room indicated; closed the door.
Mr. Bitt turned to Mr. Vivian Howard. “It will always be a great pleasure to me,” he told the great novelist, “to think that the _Daily_ was the means of restoring your cat.”
“I never shall forget it,” Mr. Vivian Howard assured him. The famous author placed himself upon the couch, caressed Abishag the Shunamite upon his lap. “Never shall forget it. It was more than good of you, Mr. Bitt, to take up the matter and offer so handsome a reward. It was public-spirited.”
Mr. Bitt's deprecatory little laugh had a rueful note.
He nerved himself to step upon the delicate ground that lay between him and his purpose. This man had not known Mr. Vivian Howard sufficiently long to put to him directly that the reward was offered, and gladly agreed to by Mr. Howard, for purposes of respective self-advertisement agreeable at once to the paper and to the man who stood for English literature. He nerved himself:
“When you say public-spirited, Mr. Howard, you use the right term. I do not attempt to deny that I fully appreciated that this reward for your cat, and the interview you agreed to give us, would greatly benefit our paper. Why should I deny it? We editors must be business men first, nowadays; journalists afterwards. But I do ask you to believe me, Mr. Howard, that in offering this reward, in arousing this interest, I had in view also a matter that has been my aim since I was at College.”
Mr. Bitt's college was Rosa Glen College, 156 Farmer Road, Peckham; but he preferred the briefer designation.
“The aim,” he continued, gathering courage as he detected in Mr. Vivian Howard's face a look which seemed to show that the famous author was advancing upon the delicate ground to meet him, “the aim of attracting the people to good literature.”
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.'”
Mr. Vivian Howard did not hesitate. “It is impossible to override your arguments, Mr. Bitt. I think we shall be doing _right_.”
Mr. Bitt concealed his immense joy. “I am convinced of it, Mr. Howard,” he said. “_Convinced_. The modern editor and the man of letters of your standing have enormous responsibilities.”
Impelled by the virtuous public duty they were performing, the two men silently grasped hands.
## CHAPTER X.
A Perfectly Splendid Chapter.
Mr. Bitt turned to Bill; indicated the door behind which my poor George was wrestling in prayer. “The only difficulty is with that chap in there. He knows the cat is found! How can we--”
“If you will leave that to me, sir,” Bill told him, “I think I can arrange it without difficulty.”
“Or danger?” added Mr. Vivian Howard, who, standing for English literature, would not lightly imperil his integrity.
“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.”
Bill advised no stipulations.
George stood firm: “I don't care a snap, Bill. I will have it now. I've been badgered about quite enough. I want to feel safe. I'll either lose it all or have it all. No more uncertainty. Anything might happen during the week, for all I know.”
Bill took the message.
Upon immediate payment Mr. Bitt at first stuck. “He might turn back on us, or start blackmailing us. He may have stolen the cat himself for all we know.”
“All the more likely, in that case, to keep his mouth shut,” commented Mr. Vivian Howard. Despite he stood for literature, this man had strong business instincts.
Bill urged compliance. He knew this finder of the cat; would speak for him as for himself.
Mr. Bitt put a quill into his inkstand; took George's name; wrote a slip; handed it to Bill. “Take that to the cashier, Wyvern. He'll give you the cheque. Clear your friend out. Eh? No--no need for me to see him again. Of course you must get his story of how he found the cat, to use when the 'What my Loss means to Me' articles run out. Then come back and we'll fix up to-morrow's account.”
A cabman drove to St. Peter's Hospital a seemingly insane young man, who bounded into the cab with a piece of paper in his hand; who sang and rattled his heels upon the foot-board, shouted to passers-by; who paid with two half-crowns; who bounded, paper still fluttering in hand, up the steps of the Dean's entrance with a wild and tremendous whoop.
George had scarcely explained to the Dean an incoherent story of L500 won through a newspaper competition, when the Mr. Lawrence, M.R.C.S., L.R.C.P., whose practice was at Runnygate, arrived.
Informally the purchase was at once arranged; a further meeting settled. George bolted to another cab; drove to Meath Street by way of the florist near Victoria Station; took aboard an immense basket of flowers.
At the house he gathered the flowers beneath his arm; on the way upstairs shifted them to his hands; flung wide the door.
His Mary, white, a tooth on a trembling lip, her pretty hands clasped, was before him. In a great whirling shower he flung the blossoms about her; then took her in his arms.
“Runnygate, Mary! Darling old girl, Runnygate!”
He kissed his Mary.
Last Shots from the Bridge.
If you had patience for another peep from the bridge that I can build, you might catch a glimpse or so.
Bending over you might see Bill seated at the editor's table of the editor's room of a monstrously successful monthly magazine of most monstrous fiction that Mr. Bitt's directors have started; Margaret, that sentimental young woman, by her husband's side is correcting the proofs of a poem signed “Margaret Wyvern.” It is of the most exquisite melancholy.
Bending over you might see George upon one of the summer evenings when, his duties through, he is taking his Mary for a drive in the country behind that rising seaside resort Runnygate. They are plunging along in a tremendous dogcart drawn by an immense horse. George is fully occupied with his steed; Mary, peeping at constant intervals through the veil that hides the clear blue eyes and the ridiculous little turned-up nose of her baby, at every corner says: “Oh, George! Georgie, do be careful! We were on _one_ wheel then, I _know_ we were!” But along the level the wind riots at her pretty curls as she sits up very straight and very proud, smiling at this splendid fellow beside her.
Bending over you might see the garden of Herons' Holt, Mr. Fletcher leading from the house the fat white pony and tubby wide car which Mrs. Marrapit, formerly Mrs. Major, has prevailed upon her husband to buy. The pony has all the docile qualities of a blind sheep, but Mr. Fletcher is in great terror of it. When, while being groomed, it suddenly lifts its head, Mr. Fletcher drops his curry-comb and retires from the stall at great speed. “It's 'ard,” says Mr. Fletcher--“damn 'ard. I'm a gardener, I am; not a 'orse-breaker.”
THE END.