"It's true. There are a few cats here. But we've not hurt them. It's quite the opposite. We've just fed them."
"It don't sound like it," said the policeman, grimly.
"If you understood anything except people who steal and do murders and stealings and naughty things like that I'd tell you all about it," said Robert, "but I'm certain you don't. You're not meant to shove your oar into people's private cat-keepings. You're only supposed to interfere when people shout 'Murder!' and 'Stop thief!' in the street. So there!"
The policeman assured them that he should see about that, and at this point the Phoenix, who had been making itself small on the pot-shelf under the dresser, among the saucepan-lids and the fish-kettle, walked on tip-toed claws in a noiseless and modest manner, and left the room unnoticed by anyone.
"Oh, don't be so horrid!" Anthea was saying, gently and earnestly. "We love cats—dear, pussy-soft things. We wouldn't hurt them for worlds. Would we, Pussy?"
And Jane answered that of course they wouldn't.
And still the policeman seemed unmoved by their eloquence.
"Now, look here," he said, "I'm a going to see what's in that room beyond there—and——"
His voice was drowned in a wild burst of mewing and squeaking.