Neaera burst into a laugh. “You are very accurate.”
“And you are very inaccurate, Mrs. Witt.”
“I shall always be amused when I meet you. I shall know you have your hand on your watch.”
“Oh yes. I retract nothing.”
“Then it is peace?”
“Yes.”
Neaera sat up and gave him her hand, and the peace was ratified. But it so chanced that Neaera’s sudden movement roused the cat. He yawned and got up, arching his back, and digging his claws into the hearth-rug.
“Bob,” said Neaera, “don’t spoil the rug.”
George’s attention was directed to the animal, and, as he looked at it, he started. Bob’s change of posture had revealed a serious deficiency: he had no tail, or the merest apology for a tail.
It was certainly an odd coincidence, perhaps nothing more, but a very odd coincidence, that George should have seen in the courtyard at Peckton Gaol no less than three tailless cats! Of course there are a good many in the world; but still most cats have tails.