‘In the cool of the evening Madame Thorns, for such was her name, was wont to promenade in the bottom meadow. Being great with kit she presented a considerable target. Syce, flushed no doubt with wine, and flattering himself he cut the devil of a figure, is to be pictured upon his archery lawn. The instrument of destruction, a bow with the drawing power, I am told, of sixty pounds, is in his grip and the lust of blood in his heart. He shot an arrow in the air,’ Mr Phinn concluded, ‘and if you tell me that it fell to earth he knew not where I shall flatly refuse to believe you. His target, his deliberate mark, I am persuaded, was my exquisite cat. Thomasina, my fur of furs, I am speaking of your mamma.’

The mother-cat blinked at Mr Phinn and so did Nurse Kettle.

‘I must say,’ she thought, ‘he really is a little off.’ And since she had a kind heart she was filled with a vague pity for him.

‘Living alone,’ she thought, ‘with only those cats. It’s not to be wondered at, really.’

She gave him her brightest professional smile and one of her standard valedictions.

‘Ah, well,’ said Nurse Kettle, letting go her anchorage on the gate, ‘be good, and if you can’t be good be careful.’

‘Care,’ Mr Danberry-Phinn countered with a look of real intemperance in his eye, ‘killed the Cat. I am not likely to forget it. Good evening to you, Nurse Kettle.’

II