‘What’s all this row about? You let me in.’
It was the voice of the police!
Robert tip-toed to the window, and spoke through the pane that had been a little cracked since Cyril accidentally knocked it with a walking-stick when he was playing at balancing it on his nose. (It was after they had been to a circus.)
‘What do you mean?’ he said. ‘There’s no row. You listen; everything’s as quiet as quiet.’ And indeed it was.
The strange sweet scent grew stronger, and the Phoenix put out its beak.
The policeman hesitated.
‘They’re MUSK-rats,’ said the Phoenix. ‘I suppose some cats eat them—but never Persian ones. What a mistake for a well-informed carpet to make! Oh, what a night we’re having!’
‘Do go away,’ said Robert, nervously. ‘We’re just going to bed—that’s our bedroom candle; there isn’t any row. Everything’s as quiet as a mouse.’
A wild chorus of mews drowned his words, and with the mews were mingled the shrieks of the musk-rats. What had happened? Had the cats tasted them before deciding that they disliked the flavour?
‘I’m a-coming in,’ said the policeman. ‘You’ve got a cat shut up there.’