The constable rose. “It’s a durned shame,” said he, “but of course I didn’t know anything about you. So then you don’t know where the burglar went after he left here?” I hesitated. It did not seem honourable to tell even the little I knew about the man who had been my guest. “He went out the front door,” said I, “but where he is now I haven’t the shadow of a suspicion.” The constable opened the kitchen door. “Come along, Jim,” said he. Then he took his leave. Overhead Minerva was preparing for the same thing. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER VI MISS PUSSY TRIES FLY PAPER. IN the back hallway, up stairs, there was a long wooden chest, half full of old magazines. Behind it mice had established a home. I did not know this at the time, but was to learn it a few minutes after the constable left. We stood in the kitchen, Ethel and I, listening to the heavy foot-falls of Minerva. She was evidently packing her trunk. Suddenly there came a mewing at the kitchen door, and I opened it for the entrance of Miss Pussy, who made a bee line for up stairs, one of her hunting grounds. “We might hide Miss Pussy,” said I, “and then Minerva wouldn’t go.” Minerva’s voice has a penetrating quality, and in a minute we could hear her making a confidant of Miss Pussy. “Miss Pussy, you an’ me is go’n’ back to the lovely city. Country’s ba-ad ’nough, but livin’ with the frien’s of burglars is wuss. What you want, Miss Pussy?” The voice came out into the hall; Minerva had evidently followed the cat out. “Yeah, you’ll get a mouse behin’ there. You wait—” We heard a grunt such as some people make when they lift something heavy, and then a characteristic chuckle, and then a half agonized, “Ooh, come out, come out, Miss Pussy. You’ll git squished. I can’t hold it. Come out.” “What _is_ happening now?” said I to Ethel. “Oh, some of her tomfoolery. I’m out of patience with her.” “Mist. Vernon! Mist. Vernon! quick! qui-i-ck! I can’t hol’ much longer! Pussy’ll be squished!” I rushed up those familiar stairs, followed by Ethel, and there stood Minerva, her eyes nearly popping out of her head as she tried with bare success to hold up the heavy chest full of magazines. Of the cat nothing was to be seen except a twitching tail that told me she was underneath the chest watching a mouse in calm obliviousness of the fact that her mistress was using all her strength in an effort to save her from becoming only a map of a cat.