“Do you believe this story?” interrupted the interne, tapping the manuscript with his fingers, and skeptically lifting his eyebrows and smiling.
“No, of course not!” exclaimed the nurse, “but—the drive won’t do us any harm, and—I would like to make sure.”
As they stopped their car before the somber old mansion they were struck by the strange silence of the place. Not a servant answered their ring. And after a time, since the door stood open, they entered and began to ascend the stairs.
A strange, weird, lonesome sound floated down to them—the yowl of a cat.
They stopped for an instant and looked at each other, and then, reassured by the sunlight, and both being matter-of-fact professional people, they pressed on. At the head of the stairs they faced a long passage at the end of which was an open door.
“Look! That is the bedroom he wrote about,” whispered the nurse, grasping the interne’s arm.
They walked softly down the passage to the door and looked in. On the bed lay the man they sought, glassy-eyed, with fallen jaw and livid face—dead!
On his breast stood a great yellow amber-eyed cat, who faced them with an arched back and menacing snarl. Involuntarily, they drew back. The cat sprang past them and down the passageway to the stairs, uttering the same weird cry.
“My God!” gasped the nurse, with pallid lips. “Did you see? About that cat’s neck—and it was a Tartar cat; I know the breed—about that cat’s neck was—was the Topaz and Jade collar—that—that he wrote about!”