Sensation, as they say in the reports.
"But he'll be cooked," cried Phyllis, open-eyed.
Ukridge uttered a roar of dismay.
"No, he won't. Nor will our dinner. Mrs. Beale always lets the kitchen fire out during the afternoon. It's a cold dinner we'll get to-night, if that cat doesn't come down."
The professor's face fell. I had remarked on the occasion when I had lunched with him his evident fondness for the pleasures of the table. Cold, impromptu dinners were plainly not to his taste.
We went to the kitchen in a body. Mrs. Beale was standing in front of the empty grate making seductive cat noises up the chimney.
"What's all this, Mrs. Beale?" said Ukridge.
"I've only bin and drove 'im further up," said Mrs. Beale.