1. MIKADO-LULU
This, I may as well tell you first of all, has really nothing to do with the other story I am about to transcribe for you. But the second story can wait a while, while I tell you how I got to know a gentleman who placed that strange document m my hands, thinking that I might possibly be able to use it some time or other, as I am a professional story-teller. It all came about through Lulu. And where in the world did Lulu come from, on that raw September evening when, caught in a cold sleet-like shower, I was hurrying on to get home to my fire as quick as I could, and found her cowering on the doorstep, drenched through, and covered from toe to tail with mud?

All I could see in the half-light were two phosphorescent flames - her yellow eyes – shining in the midst of the dark ball of fire that formed her crouched-up little body. And then she mee-owed in such a plaintive manner, and with such a note of supplication in her voice, that, in spite of my aversion to cats, I was moved to pity.

The wind was becoming a hurricane, and enormous cumulus clouds, dark and threatening, were blowing across the sky. It would be a terrible night. And Lulu had had enough of the weather. To look up at the poor little thing, a bundle of black wool, crouched up into the size of one’s fist, you would have thought that some child or other had been making experiments by dipping her into every mud-puddle on the road.

She let me take her up, and so far from protesting, she arched her poor dirty back, and let me hear her ‘‘ron-ron,’’ the purring sound which, in the feline race, is the sign of very evident satisfaction. She seemed to be saying:-

"I know that you haven't invited me in, but , what does that matter? You are the port in the storm, the gentle warmth after this terrible cold that has frozen my poor bones; you are to me the hope of a good dinner after this fast of mine which has already lasted too long. If you are not clever enough to appreciate a cat as distinguished as I am, I am not such a fool s to recognise your good qualities. What does it matter whether I’m noticed or not? I herewith adopt you, you and your house."

Ans really, if Lulu had not said exactly all this when I met her first, her conduct later on proved that she thought it.

A bi armful of dry wood thrown on the red cinders sent a thick white smoke, and shot blue flames, roaring up the chimney, and later on, when the smoke died away, I had a fine bright fire before me. The room looked warm and cheery. Nothing is better to dry oneself at than good fire of pine logs, and though I was not quite as bedraggled as lulu, I was just as eager as he was to take up my place before the fire.

While I was hastily collecting the elements of a good dinner, the little cat showed in a very evident fashion that she was well acquainted with dishes and plates, and that she was quite ready to share my dinner with me. She still me-owed, but a note of great satisfaction had replaced the plaintive supplication of her first cry. And I, too, desiring not to disturb her expressions of satisfaction, and answering her appeals, made by arching her back, and coming and going, and rubbing herself against my chair, and looking at me with her yellow eyes, I put a plate with several pieces of meat in it, down on the ground. But this was not what Lulu wanted. In one jump she was up on the table.

"now, now," I said, "these manners are not to my liking at all. Your paws are dirty, madam, and my table-cloth is clean. Come now, down with you! Off! And as quick as you can too!"

But a lot of good my vehement protestations did! Lulu, instead of obeying me, jumped on to my back, passing from one shoulder to another.

"Oh, heavens!" said I, "Did you ever see a little cat more badly brought up? Will you please get down?"

However, this moving necklace of mine prevented me from eating and not having enough courage to ill-treat a guest whom I had just succoured I put a saucer of bread and milk near me on the table, and she jumped down and made it disappear in double quick time, thus showing me that she would eat at table and nowhere else. It was evidently a bad habit she had got in her young days, and though I did my best to correct her it was no use. In vain I put basins of milk on the floor for her, or bits of raw or cooked meat; lulu would not touch it, but just went on me-owing until I put her plate up on the table beside me.

For eight months, Lulu continued to board and lodge with e, and as I gave in to all her caprices we were, on the whole, the best friends in the world. If I went out to take a walk round the village, she would follow me like a dog, running after the young birds, and gambolling round me. As these antics of hers showed that she had received a very particular education and proved that she had been a pet of her master’s, I did my very best to try and find out to whom she belonged; but nobody knew where she had come from. And I even put an advertisement in the local papers saying that a little pet cat had taken up her residence with me – here followed a description of her points – and that her owner could call for her any time he wanted to. But all this produced no result, and henceforth with an easy conscience I let Madame Lulu live peacefully beside me.

One morning when, as usual, we were taking a walk round the country, we passed a place where an artist had set up his painting impedimenta. On the easel was a landscape in oils, half-finished, and beside it a palette, a box of colours, and a big umbrella. Everything was there except the artist. What was my surprise at seeing Lulu jump up on the folding stool, me-owing as loud as she could, and looking from me to the canvas and from the canvas back to me again.

"Is it a critic of painting you have become, Lulu?" I asked her, "But, my dear friend, in order to criticise the work you need not approach the canvas quite so closely. The artist wouldn’t like it."

I wanted to go on with my walk, but Lulu wanted evidently to keep me where I was. She was interested in this painting apparently, and wanted me to share her admiration. For ten long minutes I tried to get her away from it, coaxing her to follow me. I was just going away with a loud cry, which was answered by and equally loud me-ow, made me turn my head. A man with a long beard, wearing a white linen coat and a big soft felt hat, had taken Lulu in his arms and was embracing her affectionately.

"Mikado!" he said, "It is you my little Mikado! I have found you again, when I had given up all hopes of it!"

"Pardon me, monsieur," I said, approaching, "that little cat belongs to me, and –"

"Mikado belongs to you!" he cried. "Never. When I left this place last September she disappeared, but now I have found her again. I’ll pay you whatever you like, but I won’t give her up!"

I felt very bitter and jealous at seeing how perfectly Lulu-Mikado remembered her old master.

"Look, monsieur," said the other, I reared this little animal since she was a tiny kitten. I admit that you have some right to her – but what is it compared to mine? See how well she knows me."

"Well," I declared, "it is Lulu who must decide the matter. She came to me her own accord, and if she wants to leave me you can have her. Let us separate now, and see whom she’ll follow. Whoever she goes with will be her master." ‘

‘All right," said the painter. "Come, Mikado, come to your old friend!"

"Lulu," I cried, "quick! Home with you!"

And as we both walked off in opposite directions the little cat ran from one to another in such a state of indecision and me-owing so loudly to us, that we re-joined each other again. And this is what followed: I took the artist home to dinner, and finding that he was a splendid fellow altogether, we became great friends. Now Lulu-Mikado spends six months with him and six months with me, for we were never able to decide which of us she liked best. She has two friends now, and she seems to be just as fond of one as the other.

It was while visiting Lulu’s master in Paris that I noticed in his studio one day a very remarkable painting - the portrait of an amiable and gentle-looking young man, with very sweet expression on his boyish, but a peculiar blank look in his eyes. [The remainder of the story is about a mysterious murder and has nothing to do with Lulu-Mikado.]

Neither man spoke until the pipe of the elder refused to smoke any longer. He knocked out the ashes and felt for his pouch.

"Hello, Jim, I've run out of baccy. How are you off?"

"Badly. I believe I'm smoking my last pipe." He produced his pouch and showed that it also was empty.

"Never mind. I'll run out and get some."

"I'll go, Bob. You've been waiting on me all the evening."

"Nonsense. I'm your host. I shan't be a minute." Bob scrambled out of his comfortable seat and picked up a cap

"All right, old boy," said the other lazily. Get plenty."

Jim Bevan, the man left behind, continued to smoke meditatively. Presently he felt a soft touch on his leg. He looked down and met the extraordinary eyes of the big cat. It mewed and showed a violently red mouth. Bevan knocked it away. He hated cats, and this huge creature particularly. Had not his host, Bob Squire, been such a particular chum of his, he would not have sat in the same room with the odd animal. The cat mewed again and padded lightly to the door, at which it scratched. Bevan guessed that it wished to follow its master, its devotion to whom was almost uncanny. A confirmed cat-hater himself, the fact that his friend tolerated the devotion of one of the species had always been a matter of surprise and even disgust to him. Once more the cat pawed his leg, this time not so gently. Bevan tried to shake it off, but it clung to his trouser-leg, mewing. The man picked up a book and hit the animal lightly on the head. It drew back and crouched on the rug, its eyes flaming angrily. Bevan half expected it to spring upon him, and waved his book menacingly. The cat ran to the door, and, scratching fiercely, set up a prolonged caterwauling. Bevan muttered an imprecation under his breath, and flung Blackstone's Commentaries full at its head. The cat was fairly hit and retreated from the door. For a few moments it crouched, looking first at Bevan and then at the door, its tail waving angrily. Then, like some mad thing, it again flung itself at the panels and tore at them furiously with its big claws.

"That's enough of that, you silly old grimalkin," growled Bevan. He got up and chased the cat away. The woodwork where it had been scratching was quite deeply scored.

The cat ran right away this time, and kept running excitedly round the furniture. Bevan watched it with considerable interest. Its hair was all on end, its tail erect, and it whined almost continually. Bevan returned to his chair a little impatient at the length of time his friend had taken to perform his simple task. Immediately the cat made for the door and recommenced its frantic scratching. The noise it made had by now got on Bevan's nerves, and he determined to silence the animal once and for all. The cat showed no sign of fear at his approach, but continued its unpleasant din. He gave it a gentle kick without producing any effect. For a moment he laid his hand on the handle of the door, and the cat immediately stopped scratching as if it waited for him to open it. The man was half inclined to let the creature have its way, as its uncanny excitement gave him a very uncomfortable feeling. But he reflected that it would almost certainly get lost or stolen, and he knew with what genuine affection his friend regarded it. Again he kicked the cat. It spat at him, and vigorously continued its scraping. Shrugging his shoulders, Bevan returned to his chair. Hardly was he seated when the animal was again pawing at his leg, whining more miserably than before.

The cat's pawing filled Bevan with an unreasonable feeling of intense disgust. He could not look into its eyes without a shudder. He snatched up the poker. Instantly the cat was away, growling less miserably and more menacingly. It crouched some yards away, and just in time Bevan realised that it was going to spring at him. He dodged aside and the cat landed on his chair. Again it sprang from the chair straight at his throat. He struck out with the poker and just knocked the big beast down in time. The cat's mouth was foaming, and Bevan noticed with horror that his clothes were spattered. Growing thoroughly out of temper at his friend's non arrival he stood nervously expecting another leap. But the cat's head was turned towards the door. The animal was trembling, and, for a few minutes, silent. Then one appalling scream came from its throat. Again it flung itself upon the door, tearing frantically at the wood.

Bevan was, by now, thoroughly uncomfortable, and at a loss to account for the animal's behaviour. He noticed, too, that there was a strange scent in the air, attractive, even refreshing, not unlike ammonia. But the sight of the foaming animal was nauseating to him. Hurriedly he threw a cloth over the cat. In a moment the now thoroughly enraged beast had disentangled itself. Spitting fiercely, it crouched and sprang at his throat. Bevan knocked it down with the poker. He was trembling all over. The cat had surely gone mad. He would have to kill it. It sprang again. Round he swung the poker with all his force, and hit the cat's head as a left-handed batsman punches a ball on the leg. The cat hurtled into the fireplace and lay limp on the fender. Wiping his streaming forehead with his sleeve, Bevan nervously approached the body and prodded it. He hoped that the cat was only stunned. It showed no sign of life. He examined it more carefully. The animal's neck was broken.

For some time it was as much as Bevan could do to master his inclination to faint. The strange, fresh scent had no reviving effect on him. With a duster he removed the flakes of foam with which the dead brute had bespattered him, and then mixed and drank a strong brandy and soda. What explanation he could make to Bob Squire he did not know. It seemed absurd to relate that the cat had suddenly gone mad. Yet, to all appearances, that was precisely what had happened. Bevan was satisfied in his own mind that only by killing the animal had he saved himself from serious injury. Bob had, by now, been gone over half an hour, and it should not have taken him more than five minutes to get to the tobacconist's and back.

Bevan was about to put on his hat and go out to see what had delayed his friend when the bell of the front door of the flat rang. Wondering if Bob had forgotten his keys, Bevan answered the bell. A policeman stood at the door.

"Does Mr. Robert Squire live here?"

"Yes. He is out at present."

"Are you related to him?"

"No. He is a friend of mine. Why do you ask?"

"Well, sir, a gentleman has just been run over by a motor-car, and the letters in his pocket bear this address."

"Good heavens! Is he seriously hurt?"

"I'm afraid I'm afraid he's dead, sir."

Simultaneously with a feeling of horror and grief, Bevan remembered the amazing conduct of his dead friend s cat. On hearing the terrible news he at once drove in a cab with the policeman to the station. Terribly battered and mangled though his friend was, he was easily able to identify him. Sticking out of the dead man’s jacket pocket was a large tin of tobacco, badly dented. The sight of it added somehow to the horror of the experience. It was awful to look down upon this mis-shapen thing and reflect that but a few hours previously he had gripped its warm, strong hand in the grasp of friendship. He shuddered at his relief in escaping from the sight.

The hour was late and very few people were about. Bevan strode along with his hands in his pockets, an empty pipe in his mouth. He looked straight ahead of him, his mind absorbed with the tragedy of the evening. About his person he still seemed to carry the curious fragrance of the room in which he had been forced to kill the cat. Its mad eyes seemed continually to gaze into his. He recalled with a shudder the peculiar sensation he had experienced as his weapon struck the big, soft creature down to its death. Just such a feeling, he reflected, must have quivered through the body of the driver of the car that had slain his friend. That the cat, in some weird fashion, had instinctive knowledge of its master's fate he did not for a moment doubt. It was just the demoniacal cleverness and uncanny understanding of the feline tribe that had always repelled him.

As he turned the corner into the street in which he lived, he became conscious that he was being followed. He turned, and immediately something struck him in the leg, something that stung. The claws of a thin, grey cat were buried in his leg. Bevan's cry was nearly a scream. He dragged the creature off and kicked it fiercely. Instantly something else fixed on his right calf. He swung his leg frantically, but a black cat had got a firm grip on it, and he had to drag it also off with his hands. As he bent two more leapt on his shoulders. Yelling for help, Bevan swept them off. He turned and ran in terror, the grey cat clinging to his shoulders.

How he made his way to the front door of the block of flats wherein he lived he could not tell. He felt the cats following him stealthily. He felt warm blood trickling down his legs and neck. He dared not stop to rid himself of the creature that clung so tenaciously to his back. As he stopped at the door, nervously fumbling with the lock, the cats - there were now six of them - attacked him again. Two brutes on his shoulder were clawing at his face, when the door suddenly opened. He staggered inside, and with hands and feet set about his vicious attackers. Four had managed to get inside. He wrenched them off his clothing, but the venomous beasts quickly got a fresh hold. The same strange scent allured his senses as when he had killed the big Persian. He ran up the first flight of stairs, and threw up the landing window. Then, one by one, he wrenched the animals from his person and flung them out. For some time after ridding himself of his persecutors he leant out of the window and inhaled the fresh air. His skin was tingling from a hundred scratches, and one nasty gash on his neck was bleeding copiously. The scent still clung to him. He felt inhuman. He looked at his hands, which were scarred and gashed most horribly, and shuddered as if from fear. Quietly and nervously as a man unfit for the society of his fellows he crept upstairs and went into his rooms. He was glad that he had met no one. Somehow the abiding sensation left by the evening's experiences was one of shame.

Some weeks later Bevan sat in his rooms writing. The day had been intensely hot. He had spent it on the river and was still wearing his flannels. He was sipping ice-water as he wrote. An oculist by profession, he was engaged on an essay for a medical review. The room was very quiet. Outside, rain streamed down in a black torrent, and occasionally thunder rumbled in the far distance. Bevan wrote on almost mechanically. His handwriting was extremely beautiful. He used his pen rather as an artist uses his silver pencil. Everything in the room, indeed, revealed its subservience to the master's artistic eye. A bowl of multi-coloured sweet peas stood in the centre of the writing-table. A sharp knock at the door of the flat was greeted by Bevan with a gesture of annoyance. A boy had brought a telegram, and Bevan read its contents anxiously. It read as he expected. A near relative - the only relative he had left in the world - was at death's door. Would Bevan come at once?

The man had been seriously ill for some time, and Bevan knew that this was a summons to a death-bed. Dismissing the boy, he returned to his room and looked out of the window. The night was very black, and it still rained heavily. It was an awful night to go out in, but Bevan quickly made up his mind. He stripped off his flannels and changed into an old suit and stout boots. Then, snatching up an umbrella, he hastened downstairs. He looked round anxiously for a cab. But, on such a night as this was, cabs were few and far between.

His friend lived on the north side of Clapham Common, Bevan on the south side. He reflected that, even if he managed to get a cab, he would not arrive at his destination much quicker than if he walked over the Common. He, therefore, soon decided on the latter course. It was a miserable walk. The night was pitch black, and, notwithstanding the constant rain, very warm. Bevan plugged through the slush very unhappily, his mind now on his dying relative, and now on his unfinished essay. He began to perspire freely, and his discomfort was increased by the rain soaking the legs of his trousers.

Soon he noticed that his progress was accompanied by a peculiar fragrance. He lit a pipe to relieve his nostrils, but still this strange odour pursued him. Suddenly he stopped, as sharply as if his heart had stopped beating. The scent was the same as that he had encountered on the night he had slain the Persian cat! With a shudder he realised that, in his hurry, he had put on the same suit he had worn on that hideous night and had never used since. He was half tempted to go back and discard the garments, but, remembering the object of his journey, he shrugged his shoulders as if to throw off his fears as ridiculous, and hurried on. Still the madly intoxicating scent hung around him. Again he experienced the awful sensation of fainting. He bit on his pipe and almost ran. Now — most horrible — came a repetition of the feeling that he was being pursued. He dared not turn round. His teeth chattered and his pipe fell to the ground. He did not dare to stop to pick it up, but strode fiercely on, battling with the mud and rain.

Then came the inevitable end of the sequence of horrors. Something flung itself upon his leg and he felt sharp claws in his flesh. He did not cry out. By then he was expecting such a thing to happen. Lowering his umbrella, he forced the animal off and broke into a run. Something ran past him and leapt at his throat. He struck at it with the umbrella but missed. With one hand he dragged a dripping wet cat from his waistcoat. This time he yelled at the top of his voice, and ran furiously. One, two, and a third fastened upon him. He turned round, despairing, mad to kill. He got one under his heel and crushed its head. Others fastened upon him. The night was twinkling with golden eyes.

Long he fought. He had no breath to cry out. With his kicks he sent several howling away. With his hands he wrenched at the necks of many of them. But when his body was borne down by them, so that as soon as he was rid of one another leapt into its place, he did a mad thing. He flung himself down and rolled on them. A surge swept over him. He rolled and rolled. He felt them tearing at his face, but his consciousness was going. Then he found himself in the water.

From the little island in the centre of one of the small pools on Clapham Common a man was rescued on the following morning. He was very, very wet, very scratched, and had but one eye and one ear.

THE most just and impartial vicar is bound to have his pet cases. It is inevitable, seeing that some human beings acquire the knack of being more interesting than others. My husband's pet case was undoubtedly Mrs. Wenderbury. Her history—as related by the governor of Nearham Gaol, who commended her to us—was a peculiarly sad one. She was a youngish widow of good birth and unblemished character in every respect but one. She was, or had been, a confirmed kleptomaniac. Her obsession appeared to have run the ordinary lines of such infirmities—the pilfering of tawdry, trivial things which she neither wanted nor used. So long as her husband (a wealthy corn merchant) lived; he had managed by the generous settlement of her depredations to keep her out of the clutches of the law. But soon after he died, she abstracted from a big London emporium two pairs of cheap green cotton stockings and a common tortoiseshell comb, which she wouldn't have worn for worlds, and was promptly arrested. There seemed no one at the time to plead her cause—if indeed there was any cause to plead—and she went to prison for two months.

It was all extremely sad and dreadful, and two nieces —the only living relatives she possessed—returning from a visit to Australia, were duly shocked. They took a small house called "The Pollards" for their aunt in a quiet neighbourhood, established her there with excellent servants, and wrote to my husband, explaining everything frankly. The governor's letter followed theirs. Now Cyril is an enthusiast and a theorist. In ten minutes he had evolved a certain antidote for kleptomania. Mrs. Wenderbury must be given some alternating interest—an interest so absorbing that it would exclude all truant desires. He would settle what that interest should be when he had seen her. Would I call at once? I would. So we called together. We found her to be a small, sad, mignonne creature, with round, slate-coloured eyes and delightful manners. She was dressed in a most becoming shade of grey, and was eminently likeable. But her charm did not consist simply in pretty manners. When the first nervousness had passed we found that she could talk, and talk intelligently. Moreover, she had travelled; and a woman who has taken a cultured mind into the distant corners of the earth is a great acquisition to such a rural district as ours. I freely admit that, despite the irregularities of her past, despite the eight weeks in Nearham Gaol, I grew to sincerely love little Mrs. Wenderbury.

My husband worked hard during that first visit to discover her tastes, and found that animals were her joy and delight. Her pretty face glowed as she spoke of them and told us anecdotes of their devotion to her; and as she dilated on the subject, into my husband's eyes came the expression which signifies "Eureka," but he said nothing at the time. Shortly afterwards we took our leave.

"Dogs," he observed, breaking into a reverie of mine on our way home, "are noisy ; moreover, they are hard work for a lady, and do not go with that kind of menage. Horses are out of the question. She must go in for smoked Persians."

I was a little taken aback at this prompt settling of Mrs. Wenderbury's future, but it was characteristic of my dear Cyril, and I felt quite sure (because Cyril is a man who carries all before him) that smoked Persians it would be. And I was right.

When Cyril broke her destiny to her, so to speak, little Mrs. Wenderbury confessed to a preference for cats, and required very little persuasion to take up the cult seriously. She had time and money; further, she had refined taste, and was a capable soul. What she undertook she did thoroughly, and it soon became more than a hobby to her. She bought books on the subject, studied the species from all points of view, and in two years she was an acknowledged expert, and had been elected to the committee of the National Society of Feline Improvement—an honour which pleased her not a little.

The autumn after that her "Omar Khayyam" took a first prize at the Crystal Palace Cat Show; but by a curious coincidence the first prize—a silver cup—disappeared mysteriously on the very day that it should have been awarded. Mrs. Wenderbury received a certificate instead, and the matter—so far as the committee was concerned—dropped with apologies. But a fear weeks after, as I was helping our new friend to pot begonias in her little greenhouse, I found a silver cup with a sleeping cat in high relief on one side of it, and an inscription on the other. It was pushed away behind some pots near the heating apparatus. The inference was obvious. She had stolen her own property, poor soul! and though this was the very first time she had broken out since she came amongst us, Cyril and I, talking the matter over with bated breath, felt a little nervous. We decided that under the peculiar circumstances it was not worth informing the secretary of the N.S.F.I., and we did not do so.

Then a rather anxious season befell, when two of her best Persians developed mange , and she became dispirited. We made her dine with us twice in one week to cheer her up. After the first dinner a worthless serviette ring was missing, and after the second a small Worcester vase which had been a wedding present to me from an old schoolfellow. I said nothing to Cyril, but when I got the opportunity of being alone for a few minutes in the greenhouse at "The Pollards" (Mrs. Wenderbury was not a great floriculturist, so I had rather taken it under my charge) I searched behind the pile of flower pots by the heating apparatus, and found the serviette ring and the vase both there, in company with the silver cup; and I pocketed my two possessions and took them home.

Thereafter, whenever the little widow was depressed, worried, or run down, these small outbreaks would take place. Two months at Nearham had not cured the disease, alas! But as she had now practically no friends except Cyril and me, they were not really of any great moment, and I always retrieved my own sooner or later. Cyril decided that to mention to her what she had done would only make her nervous and more liable to err, so we never spoke of it.

Then the Persians flourished again, and there was peace. She had six full-grown cats by this time, not counting a most promising contingent of kittens; and if she adored them, they absolutely worshipped her. She had transformed the small morning room at "The Pollards" into the most luxurious cattery you can imagine. The toilette accessories of her pets alone were things to wonder at. My husband said to her one day, "My dear Mrs. Wenderbury, you must positively think as a cat to imagine such ameliorations and improvements in cat life," and she laughed—l can see her now —and said, "I believe I do."

It was soon almost impossible to take up an illustrated paper without coming across a photograph of her with one or more of her darlings in her lap. First prizes at all the big shows became her common portion. She grew very bright and interested in life, and she left other people's property severely alone. On my birthday she insisted on presenting me with one of Omar Khayyam's daughters "out of gratitude," as she said. "Pride" was the cat's name, and "Pride" was fast becoming a most beautiful animal, when a terrible tragedy occurred in our peaceful midst.

I shall never forget that morning. I had some exciting news, and I rushed to meet Cyril as he wheeled his bicycle up the drive on his way home from a morning's visiting, and as I rushed I called out, "Pride had a kitten in the night—only one, a beauty!" The glad tidings died on my lips, because Cyril obviously had not even heard my words. His face was white and strained.

"Maud! Mrs. Wenderbury is dead."
"Dead?" I screamed, and the drive with its flanking of laurel bushes seemed to spin round with me.
Wasn't it awful ? All the exhilaration of my little event faded away. I caught at Cyril's arm, and stood clutching it, with my heart almost leaping out of my body.

"Oh ! Cyril, but I saw her yesterday!"
"I know, dear, I know! Who could have suspected it? It was a horrible accident—the explosion of a gas stove in the cattery—and she would go in to try and save her pets. They are all burnt. Poor woman—poor little woman!"

Then he put his arm around me, and led me into the house, for sobs had come to my relief, and I was stumbling about blindly. I shed more tears that morning and for many mornings afterwards than I have ever shed before or since. We laid Mrs. Wenderbury to rest in our little churchyard, and I felt for a while as if I had nothing left to care for. Pride's kitten was the first thing that reawakened my interest in life. It was the most charming little creature—a replica of Pride herself, only more beautiful. In a couple of months it was all we had left to remind us of our unfortunate parishioner, for poor Pride was caught in a trap one morning, and had to be taken to the lethal chamber. We called the kitten "Mrs. Wenderbury"—of course we did, there seemed no other name for her. Now I feel quite certain that the average reader, on the sharp look-out for sensation, will have found this narrative so far dull. He or she will have had hopes at the beginning and those hopes will have been dashed. I want to make my apologies, therefore, to the average reader, and to say that my only reason for committing Mrs. Wenderbury to paper is to relieve my own mind. Cyril, who is extremely literal, and looks upon superstition of any sort or kind as hopelessly pagan, has utterly refused to let me call in the intervention of the Psychical Research Society. Therefore, all that remains to me is to allow the peculiar facts which I am going to relate go forth, so that the public may judge as it thinks best; and the peculiar facts are these.

The second Mrs. Wenderbury waxed sleek and prospered. She was the most devoted and affectionate little thing in creation—the positive joy of all our visitors—even of confirmed cat-haters. " But she's so human," they used to say, to explain to themselves why they liked to lift her upon their knees and to smooth her fur. And, indeed, she had extraordinary intelligence, as well as extraordinary beauty. Her long grey coat was the most exquisite thing I have ever seen, and her round slate-grey eyes expressed as much love for us as the eyes of any child. Though it may sound silly to say so, "Mrs. Wenderbury" was such an excellent companion, too. I never felt dull if she was in the room.

It was only when a variety of small and, as a rule, valueless things took to disappearing from my work-box, from the drawing-room, or from Cyril's study, that I began to feel eerie. Our maids were absolutely beyond suspicion, and I think I should have put the whole matter down to coincidence—because any other interpretation made Cyril so angry—but one day a tiny diamond pendant which had been my mother's went with the rest. There and then I determined to do something which in this sane twentieth century sounds absolutely fatuous. I had to do it somehow—l couldn't help myself.

I slipped on my hat, and went secretly down to The Pollards, and my knees shook under me as I walked. I had a key, for Cyril was the executor, and we went round occasionally to see that no tramps had been wrenching off taps or pulling up plants.

I went straight to the greenhouse and to the pile of pots in front of the heating apparatus. With a heart which absolutely rattled against my ribs, I peeped over those pots. In a corner behind them was a regular magpie's nest of little articles—a thimble, a stylo pen, a tiny Burmese god carved in ivory, and hosts of other things; and amongst them, gleaming as a ray of sun caught it from above, lay my diamond pendant.

I don't know how long I stood there, feeling that I did not dare to touch that which was my own. But as I stood, there came a pattering of very soft feet on the glass outside, and something leapt through an open skylight with a soft plop, and alighted just at my feet. It was "Mrs. Wenderbury," and between her teeth delicately as if it had been a kitten—she held a velvet pen-wiper with a little silver man in the centre. It had been given to my husband by an old woman at the top of the village many years ago.

Our eyes met—it sounds absurd to say so, but they did—and I was frightened. "Frightened" would be a feeble word to use for Mrs. Wenderbury's sensations. It is not an exaggeration to say that my heart ached with pity as I gazed at her. For a whole minute, perhaps, she stood transfixed, staring at me; and then with a cry which will haunt me for ever (why are cat cries always so human?) the creature, dropping the pen-wiper on the floor of the greenhouse, leapt on to an empty shelf, from that to the skylight, and disappeared. We never saw her again.