‘The same,’ said Logan, who did not remember the face or name (which was Wilkinson) of his host.

’Why, I shall never forget your running catch under the scoring-box at Lord’s,’ exclaimed Mr. Wilkinson, ’I can see it now.  It saved the match.  I owe you more than I can say,’ he added with deep emotion.

’Then be grateful, and do me a little favour.  I want—­just for an hour or two—­to borrow your dog,’ and he stooped to pat the animal, a fox-terrier bearing recent and glorious scars.

‘Borrow Scout!  Why, what can you want with him?’

’I have suffered myself through an infernal wild beast of a cat in Albany Grove,’ said Logan, ’and I have a scheme—­it is unchristian I own—­of revenge.’

The curate’s eyes glittered vindictively:  ’Scout is no match for the brute,’ he said in a tone of manly regret.

’Oh, Scout will be all right.  There is not going to be a fight.  He is only needed to—­give tone to the affair.  You will be able to walk him safely through Albany Grove after to-morrow.’

’Won’t there be a row if you kill the cat?  He is what they think a valuable animal.  I never could stand cats myself.’

‘The higher vermin,’ said Logan.  ’But 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?’