their
eyes yesterday. Of course Timmy ought never to have brought her into the
drawing-room."

Dr. O'Farrell looked much relieved. He turned round: "Oh, she's just had
kittens, has she? That probably accounts for the whole thing."

Mrs. Crofton roused herself. "I do hope that horrible cat will be killed
at once," she cried hysterically. "I can't stay in Beechfield if she's
left alive."

Dr. O'Farrell answered soothingly, "Don't you fret, Mrs. Crofton. She's a
vicious brute, and shot she shall be."

No one noticed that Timmy had heard every word of this conversation; no
one noticed the expression on his face.

It had been arranged that the doctor should take Mrs. Crofton home in his
car, and that only when she was comfortably in bed should those ugly
little wounds be properly dressed.

As the doctor was hurrying down the passage into the hall, he was
surprised to see Timmy at his elbow and to hear the boy's voice pipe up:
"If my cat's not mad, she won't have to be killed, doctor, will she?" He
asked the question in a quiet, matter-of-fact tone.

"Yes, my little friend, mad or not mad, she's deserved death--and no one
must go near her till the fell deed is done!" And then, as he suddenly
caught sight of Timmy's strained, agonised face, he added kindly: "She'll
be in the cats' heaven before she knows she's touched. I'll come down in
the morning and I'll shoot her through the window myself--I'm a dead
shot, Timmy, my boy."

As Janet came along, Timmy burst out crying, and his mother, distracted,
turned to Radmore. "Oh, Godfrey, do get him away upstairs! He's tired
out, that's what it is. Unfortunately the cat belongs to him, and he's
very fond of her--he's almost as fond of Josephine as he is of Flick."

Radmore put his hand on his godson's shoulder. "Come, Timmy, don't cry.
It's unmanly."

But Timmy, instead of making an effort to control himself, wrenched
himself away and ran down the long corridor towards the kitchen. Even as
a tiny child he had hated to be caught crying.

There followed an absurd scene at the front door, Jack and Rosamund
almost quarrelling as to which of them should accompany Mrs. Crofton
home. In the end they had both gone, and Janet, ordering everyone else
to bed, sat up, wearily awaiting their return, for neither of them had
thought of taking a latchkey.

Poor Janet! Her thoughts were sad and worried thoughts, as she waited,
trying to read, in the drawing-room. At the very last, Bett