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, Betty had lingered for a moment after the others, and she had noticed that the girl’s eyes were full of tears.

“Why, Betty, what’s the matter?  I don’t think we need really worry over Mrs. Crofton.”

“I’m not thinking of Mrs. Crofton.  I can’t bear the thought of poor Josephine being shot to-morrow morning.”

“Oh, my dear, don’t you turn sentimental!  I never did like that poor cat; to me there’s always been something queer and uncanny about her.”

“You’ve never liked cats,” Betty answered, rather aggressively.  “Timmy and I are devoted to Josephine—­so is Nanna.”

Janet had checked the contemptuous words trembling on her lips.  Abruptly she had changed the subject:  “I want to tell you, Betty, how splendidly the dinner went off to-night.  Your cooking was first chop!”