Long after the smart of the whipping I received in consequence had been forgotten, the memory of that unintentional murder had plagued my boyish conscience, and many were the times I had awakened at dead of night, weeping bitter repentance out upon my pillow.

Now, some forty years later, the thought of that kitten’s death came back as clearly as the night the unkempt little thing thrashed out its life upon our kitchen floor. Strive as I would, I could not drive the memory from me, and it seemed as though the unwitting crime of my childhood was assuming an enormity out of all proportion to its true importance.

I shook my head and passed my hand across my brow, as a sleeper suddenly wakened does to drive away the lingering memory of an unpleasant dream, but the kitten’s ghost, like Banquo’s, would not down.

“What is it, Friend Trowbridge?” de Grandin asked as he eyed me shrewdly.

“Oh, nothing,” I replied as I parked the car before our door and leaped to the curb, “I was just thinking.”

“Ah?” he responded on a rising accent. “And of what do you think, my friend? Something unpleasant?”

“Oh, no. Nothing important enough to dignify by that term,” I answered shortly and led the way to the house, keeping well ahead of him, lest he push his inquiries farther.

In this, however, I did him wrong. Tactful women and Jules de Grandin have the talent of feeling without being told when conversation is unwelcome, and besides wishing me a pleasant good night, he spoke not a word until we had gone upstairs to bed. As I was opening my door, he called down the hall, “Should you want me, remember, you have but to call.”

“Humph!” I muttered ungraciously as I shut the door. “Want him? What the devil should I want him for?” And so, I pulled off my clothes and climbed into bed, the thought of the murdered kitten still with me and annoying me more by its persistence than by the faint sting of remorse it evoked.

How long I had slept I do not know, but I do know I was wide awake in a single second, sitting up in bed and staring through the darkened chamber with eyes which strove desperately to pierce the gloom.

Somewhere—whether far or near I could not tell—a cat had raised its voice in a long-drawn, wailing cry, kept silence a moment, then given tongue again with increased volume.

There are few sounds more eery to hear in the dead of night than the cry of a prowling feline, and this one was of a particularly sad, almost reproachful tone.

“Confound the beast!” I exclaimed angrily, and lay back on my pillow, striving vainly to recapture my broken sleep.

Again, the wail sounded, indefinite as to location, but louder, more prolonged even, it seemed fiercer in its timbre than when I first heard it in my sleep.