For old Bill's
sake he had ordered it; with friendly curiosity to see Bill's new
associations he now withdrew his legs from beneath the Rose of Sharon;
hopped out of bed; opened the paper.
Upon "Country House Outrage" George alighted plump; with goggle eyes,
scalp creeping, blood freezing, read through to the last "Catchy
Clue"; aghast sank upon his bed.
It had got into the papers! Among all difficult eventualities against
which he had made plans this had never found place. It had got into
the papers! The cat's abduction was, or soon would be, in the
knowledge of everyone. This infernal reward which with huge joy he had
heard offered, was now become the goad that would prick into active
search for the Rose every man, woman, or child who read the story. It
had got into the papers! He was a felon now; fleeing justice; every
hand against him. Discovery looked certain, and what did discovery
mean? Discovery meant not only loss of the enormous stake for which he
was playing--his darling Mary,--but it meant--"Good God!" groaned
my miserable George, "it means ruin; it means imprisonment."
Melancholy pictures went galloping like wild nightmares through this
young man's mind. He saw himself in the dock, addressed in awful words
by the judge who points out the despicable character of his crime; he
saw himself in hideous garb labouring in a convict prison; he saw
himself struck off the roll at the College of Surgeons; he saw
himself--"Oh, Lord!" he groaned, "I'm fairly in the cart!"
Very slowly, very abject, he peeled off his pyjamas; slid a white and
trembling leg into his bath.
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