“I can’t bear mewing cats,” said Clarence. “A mewing cat gets on my nerves!”
“A mewing cat is so trying,” said Elizabeth.
“I dislike mewing cats,” said old Mr. Yeardsley.
That was all about mewing cats for the moment. They seemed to think they had covered the ground satisfactorily, and they went back to pictures.
We talked pictures steadily till it was time to dress for dinner. At least, they did. I just sort of sat around. Presently the subject of picture-robberies came up. Somebody mentioned the “Monna Lisa,” and then I happened to remember seeing something in the evening paper, as I was coming down in the train, about some fellow somewhere having had a valuable painting pinched by burglars the night before. It was the first time I had had a chance of breaking into the conversation with any effect, and I meant to make the most of it. The paper was in the pocket of my overcoat in the hall. I went and fetched it.
“Here it is,” I said. “A Romney belonging to Sir Bellamy Palmer——”
They all shouted “What!” exactly at the same time, like a chorus. Elizabeth grabbed the paper.
“Let me look! Yes. ‘Late last night burglars entered the residence of Sir Bellamy Palmer, Dryden Park, Midford, Hants——’”
“Why, that’s near here,” I said. “I passed through Midford——”
“Dryden Park is only two miles from this house,” said Elizabeth. I noticed her eyes were sparkling.