his manner showed very clearly that he still expected to be eaten at any moment.
“Poor Dicon-bird,” said the Honorable Emily comfortingly. Then to her guest: “I had to smuggle him off the boat wrapped in a handkerchief in my pocket. We have a strict quarantine on incoming livestock, you see…”
Miss Withers felt ill at ease. “I came up here to find out why you bribed the stewardess,” she said softly.
Something flickered unpleasantly behind the monocle of the Englishwoman. Then she smiled, very warmly indeed.
“I was about to say—”
At that moment there came a knock on the door. The Honorable Emily answered it and admitted a solid person in a ratty fur coat, who turned out to be Mrs. Snoaks, stewardess of the American Diplomat. In one hand she bore a case of imitation leather. Miss Withers stared blankly at both stewardess and case. The woman set it down with a defiant “Here ’e is, the howling brute,” and fled.
The Honorable Emily was on her knees, fumbling with the catch. The case opened, and Tobermory emerged as if shot from a gun. As his mistress tried to clasp him to her bosom he slashed in the general direction of her hand with a vicious uppercut, and leaped to the bed, from which vantage point he proceeded to stare fixedly at the caged bird. Tobermory was not a cat who easily forgot.
“You see?” said the Honorable Emily.
Miss Withers did not see.
“Tobermory is a home-loving cat,” explained the Englishwoman. “He is dying to get back to my place in Cornwall, where he has a whole island to himself. He’d have died of boredom if I’d put him in quarantine for six months, as the law insists. He was too large to go in my coat pocket, so I paid the stewardess four quid to smuggle him off the ship for me. Members of the crew of a ship that docks here regularly every four weeks never have to worry over Customs.”
Miss Withers made a note of that. She felt that she had made a fool of herself. “I see,” she said. “Please understand that I didn’t…”
“Of course not.” The Honorable Emily was fairly purring now. “No offense meant, none taken, I always say. By the way, don’t feel that you must rush off. I’m all alone tonight, since my nephew has taken it into his silly head to turn Lothario. Though I suppose it’s only natural at his age. He’s twenty, and I can’t keep him in an Eton collar forever. But if you’d care to join me in dinner at the Corner House and a movie afterward?”
Miss Withers was still too conscious of the fact that she had made a mountain out of a molehill. She declined, pleading a headache, a previous engagement, letters to write, or some similar excuse, and edged toward the door. She glanced down at the leatherette case as she passed it, noticing the lining of newspapers and silver cat-hairs.
The Honorable Emily shoved the case beneath her bed. “Poor Toby does hate it so!” she said. Some inner amusement showed itself in her face. “Do drop in again if you have any more questions,” she finished quite cordially.
Miss Withers was back in her own room again before it occurred to her that there very well might have been something besides newspaper and silver cat-hairs in the bottom of that imitation leather case. And then, of course, it was too late.
She had dinner brought to her room, and spent most of the evening in making meaningless little marks upon a sheet of notepaper. Once or twice she was very nearly at the point of sending a cablegram to her old friend Oscar Piper, inspector of the New York homicide squad, but she resolutely thought better of it.
At nine o’clock the maid entered, rattled at the fire, and turned back the bed. Miss Withers admitted, upon being pressed, that she would like to be called at ten o’clock in the morning.
The hotel, quiet enough at any hour, gradually took on the stillness of the grave as the few other guests retired. Yet Miss Withers could not bring herself to go to bed.
Somehow she felt in her
“Poor Dicon-bird,” said the Honorable Emily comfortingly. Then to her guest: “I had to smuggle him off the boat wrapped in a handkerchief in my pocket. We have a strict quarantine on incoming livestock, you see…”
Miss Withers felt ill at ease. “I came up here to find out why you bribed the stewardess,” she said softly.
Something flickered unpleasantly behind the monocle of the Englishwoman. Then she smiled, very warmly indeed.
“I was about to say—”
At that moment there came a knock on the door. The Honorable Emily answered it and admitted a solid person in a ratty fur coat, who turned out to be Mrs. Snoaks, stewardess of the American Diplomat. In one hand she bore a case of imitation leather. Miss Withers stared blankly at both stewardess and case. The woman set it down with a defiant “Here ’e is, the howling brute,” and fled.
The Honorable Emily was on her knees, fumbling with the catch. The case opened, and Tobermory emerged as if shot from a gun. As his mistress tried to clasp him to her bosom he slashed in the general direction of her hand with a vicious uppercut, and leaped to the bed, from which vantage point he proceeded to stare fixedly at the caged bird. Tobermory was not a cat who easily forgot.
“You see?” said the Honorable Emily.
Miss Withers did not see.
“Tobermory is a home-loving cat,” explained the Englishwoman. “He is dying to get back to my place in Cornwall, where he has a whole island to himself. He’d have died of boredom if I’d put him in quarantine for six months, as the law insists. He was too large to go in my coat pocket, so I paid the stewardess four quid to smuggle him off the ship for me. Members of the crew of a ship that docks here regularly every four weeks never have to worry over Customs.”
Miss Withers made a note of that. She felt that she had made a fool of herself. “I see,” she said. “Please understand that I didn’t…”
“Of course not.” The Honorable Emily was fairly purring now. “No offense meant, none taken, I always say. By the way, don’t feel that you must rush off. I’m all alone tonight, since my nephew has taken it into his silly head to turn Lothario. Though I suppose it’s only natural at his age. He’s twenty, and I can’t keep him in an Eton collar forever. But if you’d care to join me in dinner at the Corner House and a movie afterward?”
Miss Withers was still too conscious of the fact that she had made a mountain out of a molehill. She declined, pleading a headache, a previous engagement, letters to write, or some similar excuse, and edged toward the door. She glanced down at the leatherette case as she passed it, noticing the lining of newspapers and silver cat-hairs.
The Honorable Emily shoved the case beneath her bed. “Poor Toby does hate it so!” she said. Some inner amusement showed itself in her face. “Do drop in again if you have any more questions,” she finished quite cordially.
Miss Withers was back in her own room again before it occurred to her that there very well might have been something besides newspaper and silver cat-hairs in the bottom of that imitation leather case. And then, of course, it was too late.
She had dinner brought to her room, and spent most of the evening in making meaningless little marks upon a sheet of notepaper. Once or twice she was very nearly at the point of sending a cablegram to her old friend Oscar Piper, inspector of the New York homicide squad, but she resolutely thought better of it.
At nine o’clock the maid entered, rattled at the fire, and turned back the bed. Miss Withers admitted, upon being pressed, that she would like to be called at ten o’clock in the morning.
The hotel, quiet enough at any hour, gradually took on the stillness of the grave as the few other guests retired. Yet Miss Withers could not bring herself to go to bed.
Somehow she felt in her
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