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It was astonishing what a difference he made in her life. She was a friendly soul, and until Joseph’s arrival she had had to depend for company mainly on the footsteps of the man in the flat across the way. Moreover, the building was an old one, and it creaked at night. There was a loose board in the passage which made burglar noises in the dark behind you when you stepped on it on the way to bed; and there were funny scratching sounds which made you jump and hold your breath. Joseph soon put a stop to all that. With Joseph around, a loose board became a loose board, nothing more, and a scratching noise just a plain scratching noise.

And then one afternoon he disappeared.

Having searched the flat without finding him, Elizabeth went to the window, with the intention of making a bird’s-eye survey of the street. She was not hopeful, for she had just come from the street, and there had been no sign of him then.

Outside the window was a broad ledge, running the width of the building. It terminated on the left, in a shallow balcony belonging to the flat whose front door faced hers–the flat of the young man whose footsteps she sometimes heard. She knew he was a young man, because Francis had told her so. His name, James Renshaw Boyd, she had learned from the same source.

On this shallow balcony, licking his fur with the tip of a crimson tongue and generally behaving as if he were in his own backyard, sat Joseph.

‘Jo-seph!’ cried Elizabeth–surprise, joy, and reproach combining to give her voice an almost melodramatic quiver.

He looked at her coldly. Worse, he looked at her as if she had been an utter stranger. Bulging with her meat and drink, he cut her dead; and, having done so, turned and walked into the next flat.

Elizabeth was a girl of spirit. Joseph might look at her as if she were a saucerful of tainted milk, but he was her cat, and she meant to get him back. She went out and rang the bell of Mr James Renshaw Boyd’s flat.

The door was opened by a shirt-sleeved young man. He was by no means an unsightly young man. Indeed, of his type–the rough-haired, clean-shaven, square-jawed type–he was a distinctly good-looking young man. Even though she was regarding him at the moment purely in the light of a machine for returning strayed cats, Elizabeth noticed that.

She smiled upon him. It was not the fault of this nice-looking young man that his sitting-room window was open; or that Joseph was an ungrateful little beast who should have no fish that night.

‘Would you mind letting me have my cat, please?’ she said pleasantly. ‘He has gone into your sitting-room through the window.’

He looked faintly surprised.

‘Your cat?’

‘My black cat, Joseph. He is in your sitting-room.’

‘I’m afraid you have come to the wrong place. I’ve just left my sitting-room, and the only cat there is my black cat, Reginald.’

‘But I saw Joseph go in only a minute ago.’

‘That was Reginald.’

For the first time, as one who examining a fair shrub abruptly discovers that it is a stinging-nettle, Elizabeth realized the truth. This was no innocent young man who stood before her, but the blackest criminal known to criminologists–a stealer of other people’s cats. Her manner shot down to zero.

‘May I ask how long you have had your Reginald?’

‘Since four o’clock this afternoon.’

‘Did he come in through the window?’

‘Why, yes. Now you mention it, he did.’

‘I must ask you to be good enough to give me back my cat,’ said Elizabeth, icily.

He regarded her defensively.

‘Assuming,’ he said, ‘purely for the purposes of academic argument, that your Joseph is my Reginald, couldn’t we come to an agreement of some sort? Let me buy you another cat. A dozen cats.’

‘I don’t want a dozen cats. I want Joseph.’

‘Fine, fat, soft cats,’ he went on persuasively. ‘Lovely, affectionate Persians and Angoras, and–‘