What Miss Blowser saw was a man disappearing into a hansom, whence came the yapping of a dog. Another cab was loitering by, empty; and this cabman had his orders. Logan had seen to _that_. To hail that cab, to leap in, to cry, 'Follow the scoundrel in front: a sovereign if you catch him,' was to the active Miss Blowser the work of a moment. The man whipped up his horse, the pursuit began, 'there was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,' Marylebone rang with the screams of female rage and distress. Mr. Fulton, he also, leaped up and rushed in pursuit, wringing his hands. He had no turn of speed, and stopped panting. He only saw Miss Blowser whisk into her cab, he only heard her yells that died in the distance. Mr. Fulton sped back into his house. He shouted for Mary: 'What's the matter with your mistress, with my cook?' he raved. 'Somebody's taken her cat, sir, and is off, in a cab, and her after him.' 'After her cat! D--- her cat,' cried Mr. Fulton. 'My dinner will be ruined! It is the last she shall touch in _this_ house. Out she packs--pack her things, Mary; no, don't--do what you can in the kitchen. I _must_ find a cook. Her cat!' and with language unworthy of a drysalter Mr. Fulton clapped on his hat, and sped into the street, with a vague idea of hurrying to Fortnum and Mason's, or some restaurant, or a friend's house, indeed to any conceivable place where a cook might be recruited _impromptu_. 'She leaves this very day,' he said aloud, as he all but collided with a lady, a quiet, cool-looking lady, who stopped and stared at him. 'Oh, Miss Frere!' said Mr. Fulton, raising his hat, with a wild gleam of hope in the trouble of his eyes, 'I have had such a misfortune!' 'What has happened, Mr. Fulton?' 'Oh, ma'am, I've lost my cook, and me with a dinner-party on to-day.' 'Lost your cook? Not by death, I hope?' 'No, ma'am, she has run away, in the very crisis, as I may call it.' 'With whom?' 'With nobody. After her cat. In a cab. I am undone. Where can I find a cook? You may know of some one disengaged, though it is late in the day, and dinner at seven. Can't you help me?' 'Can you trust me, Mr. Fulton?' 'Trust you; how, ma'am?' 'Let me cook your dinner, at least till your cook catches her cat,' said Miss Frere, smiling. 'You, don't mean it, a lady!' 'But a professed cook, Mr. Fulton, and anxious to help so nobly generous a patron of the art . . . if you can trust me.' 'Trust you, ma'am!' said Mr. Fulton, raising to heaven his obsecrating hands. 'Why, you're a genius. It is a miracle, a mere miracle of good luck.' By this time, of course, a small crowd of little boys and girls, amateurs of dramatic scenes, was gathering. 'We have no time to waste, Mr. Fulton. Let us go in, and let me get to work. I dare say the cook will be back before I have taken off my gloves.'