Without a word Enoch rose, tapped the bell, and ordered a little Bourbon and seltzer.
“Put it over there,” said he to the waiter, indicating a small table by the window.
“Mosh imposh’ble old brute,” muttered Teddy to himself, as he left the club to lunch with a widow.
CHAPTER XIV
Matilda’s coal-black cat was the first to hear it.
She had slipped up from the kitchen to the top-floor landing unseen, and had chosen a spot on the faded carpet to complete her morning toilet, warmed by a sunbeam that pierced the paint and dust of a diamond-checkered skylight—color of chocolate and clothes bluing.
She sat undisturbed at her ease, her tail curled snugly about her, while she diligently nibbled between the toes of her velvety paws. This done, she licked her strong black chest with her clean pink tongue until it shone as glossy as sable; thoroughly licked her sleek flanks, passed a moistened paw over and over her ears, scrubbing them well, reclined with exquisite grace, stretched to her full, sinuous length, her paws spread, yawned, and was busily licking and nibbling the extreme tip of her tail, when she suddenly sat upright, motionless, her ears shot forward, listening, the depths of her yellow eyes as clear as topaz.
A door had brusquely opened below, and over its threshold poured forth, rose, and reverberated up the stairs the angry voices of two men.
Crouching, her tail swishing nervously from side to ride, she craned her head with slow caution between the banisters and peered down. Back in her street-cat days she would scarcely have given the incident a second thought. Besides, in the street there was always an area gate to slip under out of danger. In the house it was different. Experienced as she was in the art of eluding her enemies, she had a horror of being cornered. She knew the exit to the roof to be closed as tight as a blind alley. In the event of pursuit she would be obliged to pass her enemy in her flight back to the kitchen. There was the pot-closet with its comforting barricade of old brooms and singed ironing-boards, and safer refuges under the damp coal-hole, and unfathomable depths in the cavernous cellar, veiled by cobwebs—but of all these she preferred Matilda’s aproned lap for safety.
The row four flights below continued, punctuated with sharp retorts, vehement denials, curt threats—all unintelligible to her, save that their savage tone kept her where she was, and on the qui vive.