Even Janice could understand that Miss Peckham considered daddy not at all fit to bring up, or have the sole care of, a daughter, and that Mr. Broxton Day was not to be altogether trusted.
Miss Peckham's nature overflowed with tenderness toward animals, and it was regarding one of her pets she now called to Janice about.
"You haven't seen him, have you, Janice? You haven't seen my
Sam?"
"Your Sam?" murmured Janice, rather non-plussed for the moment.
"You don't mean the dog you bought of the butcher, do you, Miss
Peckham?"
"No, indeed. That's Cicero. But Sam, the cat. He's got black and yellow on him, Janice. You've seen him, I know."
And suddenly Janice remembered that she had seen him. He had been one of those cats tolled into the back kitchen by Arlo Junior. Worse than all, Sam was the cat Olga Cedarstrom had hurt with a lump of coal. She remembered that he was the last to escape when she opened the kitchen door, dragging his injured leg behind him.
How could Janice tell her of this awful thing that had happened to Sam? The poor cat had probably dragged himself off into some secret place to lick his wounds —to die, perhaps.
"You've seen him! I know you have, Janice Day," cried the shrewd maiden lady. "What have you done to poor Sam?"
"Why, Miss Peckham! I haven't done a thing to him," declared
Janice
Miss Peckham, however, had read the girl's face aright. She saw that Janice knew something about the missing cat.