"Yes, father?"
"What did you do with Timmy's cat?"
"I put her back in the scullery, with her kittens. They only opened their
eyes yesterday. Of course Timmy ought never to have brought her into the
drawing-room."
Dr. O'Farrell looked much relieved. He turned round: "Oh, she's just had
kittens, has she? That probably accounts for the whole thing."
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.
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