The key grated in the lock and then Rupert shot back the accompanying bolt. "Something's there," breathed Ricky. "Probably nothing but a branch blown against the door by the wind," Val assured her, remembering the tangled state of the garden. The door came back, letting in a douche of cold rain and a black shadow which leaped for the security of the center of the room. "Look!" Ricky laughed unsteadily and released Val's arm. In the center of the neat kitchen, spitting angrily at the wet, stood a ruffled and oversized black tom-cat. CHAPTER II THE LUCK OF THE LORDS OF LORNE "Nice of you to drop in, old man," commented Rupert dryly as he shut the door. "But didn't anyone ever mention to you that gentlemen wipe their feet before entering strange houses?" He surveyed a line of wet paw prints across the brick floor. "Did he get all wet, the poor little--" Ricky was on her knees, stretching out her hand and positively cooing. The cat put down the paw he had been licking and regarded her calmly out of round, yellow eyes. Then he returned to his washing. Val laughed. "Evidently he is used to the strong, silent type of human, Ricky. I wonder where he belongs." "He belongs to us now. Yes him does, doesn't him?" She attempted to touch the visitor's head. His ears went back and he showed sharp teeth in no uncertain manner. "Better let him alone," advised Rupert. "He doesn't seem to be the kind you can cuddle." "So I see." Ricky arose to her feet with an offended air. "One would think that I resembled the more repulsive members of my race." "In the meantime," Rupert again sought the cupboard, "let's eat." Half an hour later, fed and well content (even Satan, as the Ralestones had named their visitor because of his temperament, having condescended to accept some of the better-done bits of bacon), they sat about the table staring at the dishes. Now it is a very well-known fact that dishes do _not_ obligingly leap from a table into a pan of well-soaped water, slosh themselves around a few times, and jump out to do a spot of brisk rubbing down. But how nice it would be if they did, thought Val. "The dishes--" began Ricky in a faint sort of way. "Must be done. We gather that. How utterly nasty bacon grease looks when it's congealed." Her younger brother surveyed the platter before him with mournful interest. "And the question before the house is, I presume, who's going to wash them?" Rupert grinned. "This seems to be as good a time as any to put some sort of a working plan in force. There is a certain amount of so-called housework which has to be done. And there are three of us to do it. It's up to us to apportion it fairly. Shall we say, let everyone care for his or her own room--" "There are also the little matters of washing, and ironing, and cleaning," Ricky broke in to remind him.