He was in high spirits. Success was
making him very bold. At Temple Colney, thus far, no breath of
suspicion had paled his cheek; at Herons' Holt events were galloping
to the end he would have them go. That morning the _Daily_ had
announced the raising of the reward to 150 pounds. True, the _Daily_
added that Mr. Marrapit had declared, absolutely and finally, that he
would not go one penny beyond this figure. George laughed as he read.
In four days his uncle had raised the offer by fifty pounds; at this
rate--and the rate would increase as Mr. Marrapit's anguish augmented
--the 500 pounds would soon be reached. And then! And then!
Through the pouring rain George whistled up the village street,
whistled up the stairs, whistled into the sitting--room. Then stopped
his tune. The buoyant notes of triumph dwindled to a tuneless squeak,
to a noiseless breathing--Bill Wyvern, seated at a table, sprung to
meet him.
"What ho!" cried Bill. "They told me you wouldn't be in before seven!
What ho! Isn't this splendid?"
George said in very hollow voice: "Splendid!" He put the basket on a
chair; sat on it; gave Bill an answering, "What ho!" that was cheerful
as rap upon a coffin lid.
"Well, how goes it?" Bill asked eagerly.
George put out a hand. "Don't come over here, dear old fellow.
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