Notwithstanding the breathless condition in which he had arrived at the station house, his return journey was accomplished at his dizziest speed. Also he arrived back at the house way in advance of Whitney Barnes. There was a reason. Wearing a frock coat and a silk hat and carrying a cane (of course he called it _stick_) one is hardly equipped for marathoning. And if you must know more, Whitney's small clothes were too fashionably tight to permit of more than a swift heel and toe action. At this he was doing admirably in his passionate haste to return and warn his friend Gladwin when another woman came into his life and appealed for succor. Three in one evening, when he was perfectly satisfied to stop at one--the bewitching Sadie. No. 3 was of an entirely different type from No. 1 and No. 2, and, happily for Whitney, there was no yowling bundle this time--merely a cat, and a silent cat at that. She was a plump little woman and rather comely and she was intensely excited, for the cat in the case was hers and the cat was up the only tree on that street east of Central Park. At the foot of the tree sat a large bulldog gazing fixedly up at the cat. Whitney Barnes was so occupied with his heel and toe pace that he did not descry the woman or the dog or the tree or the cat until the woman seized him by the arm and cried: "You must save my darling Zaza from that dog." Then she tailed off into hysterical sobs, but did not release her grip. "Madam, I'm in great haste," retorted Barnes, striving to wriggle free from her grip. "I would advise you to call a policeman." "There is no policeman," sobbed the distressed mistress of Zaza. "Oh, you m-m-m-must s-s-s-save my Z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-aza. Oo-oo!" Then Barnes glimpsed the dog and its fang-filled grin as it stared up at the cat. "You don't expect me to tackle that dog?" he asked, backing away and making another effort to free himself. "Shoot him! do anything to him!" insisted the distressed female. "Oo-oo-oo! he kills cats. Do something quick or I must scream." Whitney Barnes would have welcomed an open manhole to vanish into. If that woman screamed and held fast to him till the police came it would be just as bad as the baby case. But if he tackled the dog he would probably go to the hospital and be afflicted with hydrophobia and all sorts of things. "Calm yourself my dear woman," he said frantically. "The dog cannot climb the tree and your cat is perfectly safe." "Are y-y-y-you s-s-s-sure?" she moaned. Then grabbing him tighter. "But you must not leave me. In case the dog should go up that tree you must attack it with your cane." "I promise," panted Barnes, "if you will only release your grip on my arm. Your finger nails are tearing the flesh." "I w-w-w-will not hold you so tight," she consented, "but I must hold on to you till somebody comes. Oh, look at that brute. He is biting the tree. He----"