not a hair of his whiskers shall
be hurt. He will seek other haunts, that's all.'

'But you don't mean to steal him?' asked the curate anxiously. 'You see,
suspicion might fall on me, as I am known to bear a grudge to the brute.'

'I steal him! Not I,' said Logan. 'He shall sleep in his owner's arms,
if she likes. But Albany Grove shall know him no more.'

'Then you may take Scout,' said Mr. Wilkinson. 'You have a cab there,
shall I drive to your rooms with you and him?'

'Do,' said Logan, 'and then dine at the club.' Which they did, and
talked much cricket, Mr. Wilkinson being an enthusiast.

* * * * *

Next day, about 3.40 P.M., a hansom drew up at the corner of Albany
Grove. The fare alighted, and sauntered past Mr. Fulton's house.
Rangoon, the Siamese puss, was sitting in a scornful and leonine
attitude, in a tree of the garden above the railings, outside the open
kitchen windows, whence came penetrating and hospitable smells of good
fare. The stranger passed, and as he returned, dropped something here
and there on the pavement. It was valerian, which no cat can resist.

Miss Blowser was in a culinary crisis, and could not leave the kitchen
range. Her face was of a fiery complexion; her locks were in a fine
disorder. 'Is Rangoon in his place, Mary?' she inquired of the kitchen
maid.

'Yes, ma'am, in his tree,' said the maid.

In this tree Rangoon used to sit like a Thug, dropping down on dogs who
passed by.

Presently the maid said, 'Ma'am, Rangoon has jumped down, and is walking
off to the right, after a gentleman.'

'After a sparrow, I dare say, bless him,' said Miss Blowser. Two minutes
later she asked, 'Has Rangy come back?'

'No, ma'am.'

'Just look out and see what he is doing, the dear.'

'He's walking along the pavement, ma'am, sniffing at something. And oh!
there's that curate's dog.'

'Yelping little brute! I hope Rangy will give him snuff,' said Miss
Blowser.

'He's flown at him,' cried the maid ambiguously, in much excitement. 'Oh,
ma'am, the gentleman has caught hold of Rangoon. He's got a wire mask on
his face, and great thick gloves, not to be scratched. He's got Rangoon:
he's putting him in a bag,' but by this time Miss Blowser, brandishing a
saucepan with a long handle, had rushed out of the kitchen, through the
little garden, cannoned against Mr. Fulton, who happened to be coming in
with flowers to decorate his table, knocked him against a lamp-post,
opened t