She didn’t ask if Clarissa was among them. She could only hope Peter had reached the house in time to telephone for help. The man, walking beside her, was the picture of gentlemanly dignity until, suddenly, a black shape darted in front of them.
“What’s that?” he exclaimed, losing a little of his dignity.
“It’s my cat. Don’t you like cats, Mr. Law—I mean Pastor Valentine?”
Judy had let the name slip out. She could have bitten her tongue for it. The man dropped his polite mask and snarled, “I hate cats. They’re unlucky, especially black ones.”
It was a temptation to tell him that this particular black cat was unlucky only for criminals, but Judy resisted the urge as Lawson, recovering his poise, turned and said, “I’m sorry for the outburst, but I’m allergic to cats.”
“My cat’s the same way,” Judy retorted. “He’s allergic to some people.”
“My dear! You will never make friends saying things like that. We do want to be friendly, don’t we?” he asked in placating tones. “After all, I am the father of a young lady who seems very fond of you.”
“Is she?” asked Judy. “Then perhaps you can tell me where the young lady is.”
“She’s with her mother,” was his clipped answer. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must be going—”
“Aren’t you coming to my party? You must live near here,” Judy ventured. “I notice you were walking.”