David Brunger arrived. Conducted to the
room whence the Rose had disappeared, the astute inquiry agent was
there closeted with Mr. Marrapit for half an hour. At the end of that
time Mr. Marrapit appeared on the lawn. His face was white, his voice,
when he spoke, hollow and trembling. He called to the clothes-prop
lancers:
"Cease. Cease. Withdraw the milk. The Rose of Sharon is not strayed.
She is stolen!"
"Thenk Gord!" said Frederick. "Thenk Gord! I've pretty well busted
myself over this game."
Mr. Fletcher said nothing; drew his snail from his pocket; plunged
head downwards in a bush. Woe sat heavy upon him; beneath the
indignity and labour of thrusting at stranger cats with a clothes-prop
this man had grievously suffered.
V.
The Rose was stolen. That was Mr. Brunger's discovery after
examination of the window-latch where George's knife had marked it,
the sill where George's boots had scratched it. Outside the great
detective searched for footmarks--they had been obliterated by heavy
rainfall between the doing of the hideous deed and its discovery. Upon
the principle of impressing his client, however, Mr. Brunger grovelled
on the path with tape measure and note-book; measured every pair of
boots in the house; measured the window; measured the room; in neat
little packets tied up specimens of the gravel, specimens of the turf,
specimens of hair from the Rose of Sharon's coat, picked from her bed.
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