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Brunger ceased dictation; took up the receiver. "Are you David Brunger, the private detective?" a voice asked. "We are," replied Mr. Brunger in the thin treble he used on first answering a call. "Who are you, please?" "I am Mr. Christopher Marrapit of Herons' Holt, Paltley Hill, Surrey. "One moment," piped Mr. Brunger. "Is it confidential business?" "It is most urgent business.
The chances of such events were remote, but the masterly woman determined to run no risks. She decided that on arrival at Paltley Hill she would conceal her cat; on the morrow, starting out from Herons' Hill to renew her search, would find it and with it come bounding to the house. As to where she should hide it she had no difficulty in determining.
Unhappily, the friendly chatter of the neighbourhood, which should supply us with something of the character of a resident, is quite lacking at Paltley Hill in regard to Mr. Marrapit. Mr. Marrapit rarely moves out beyond the fine wall that encircles Herons' Holt, his residence; with Paltley Hill society rarely mixes.
Paltley Hill society can give us nothing. In a lower social grade of the district, however, much might be learned. In the kitchens, the cottages, and the bar-parlours of Paltley Hill, Mr. Marrapit is considerably discussed. Nicely mannered as we are, servants' gossip concerning one in our own station of life is naturally distasteful to us.
It was impossible that anyone had been to the hut. Some idiot had found a cat that answered to the Rose's description, and had telegraphed the discovery to his uncle; or someone had brought a cat to his uncle and his uncle was himself temporarily deluded. Wildly praying that this might be so, George leaped from the train at Paltley Hill; went rushing to the hut.
The two men who were most dangerous to him the detective and the Daily's Special Commissioner at Paltley Hill, now slushing through the mud behind were beneath his thumb. If he could keep them goose-chasing for a few days or so ! The turn of a corner brought them in view of the Clifford Arms. George pointed: "I want you to spend the night there and to stay there till I come to-morrow.
"It's 'ard damn 'ard," Mr Fletcher said on that occasion. "I'm a gardener, I am; not a treasure-'unter." Murmurs of sympathy chorused endorsement of this view. Finally there are the words of Frederick, son of Mrs. Armitage, and assistant to Fletcher, whose pleasure it is to set on end the touzled hair of the youth of Paltley Hill by obviously exaggerated stories of Mr. Marrapit's grim rule.
Upon the journey from Waterloo to Paltley Hill he could with difficulty restrain himself from leaping upon the seat; bawling "I've passed! I've passed! I'm qualified!" He could not sit still. He fidgeted, wriggled; thrust his head first from one window, then from the other. Every foot of the line was well known to him. To each familiar landmark his spirit bellowed: "Greeting!
Two hours after George, leaving his Mary near Paltley Hill railway station, had got back to his inn at Temple Colney, a very agitated young man booked from Temple Colney to Paltley Hill and was now speeding between them in the train. He had the carriage to himself. Sometimes he sat, hands deep in pockets, legs thrust before him, staring with wide and frightened eyes at the opposite seat.
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.
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