And then catching sight of Simpkins, she dropped the frightened boy back
into his chair.

"I can't stand cruelty to animals," she explained, panting a little from
her effort. "If anything of this sort happens again, I'll discharge you
on the spot," she added to the boy.

"Shame!" Simpkins echoed warmly. "Didn't know what was up or I'd have
stopped him."

"I'm sure of it," she answered graciously, and, stooping, she picked up
the now purring cat and left the room.

Simpkins followed her back to his desk and went on with his addressing,
but he had something worth thinking about now. Not for nothing had he
been educated in that newspaper school which puts two and two together
and makes six. And by the time he was through work for the day and back
in his room at the hotel, he had his result. He embodied it in this
letter to Naylor:


_Dear Mr. Naylor_:

I am in the employ of Mrs. Athelstone. How I managed it is a yarn
that will keep till I get back. [He meant until he could invent the
story which would reflect the most credit on his ingenuity, for
though he knew that the whole thing had been a piece of luck he had
no intention of cheapening himself with Naylor by owning as much.]
I had intended to return to Boston to-night, but I'm on the track of
real news, a lovely stink, something much bigger than the Sunday story.