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“That’s what I’ve been thinking.”

Silence settled in the car again for a few miles. Roy stole numerous glances at his passenger—suspicious glances, as though he again doubted Harley’s sanity.

“Have you such a thing as a revolver, Roy?” asked Harley as they left Waverley behind.

Roy felt a cold shudder go down his spine.

“A shot-gun is best for cats,” he replied. “Revolver’s no good. Too easy to miss 'em.”

“A shot-gun would make too much of a mess of the verandah, I’m afraid,” mused Harley.

Roy sat up straight behind the wheel and spoke severely.

“Now, you want to get ideas like that out of your head, Mr. Harley.”

“What ideas?” asked Harley, the faintest suggestion of amusement in his tone.

“You’ve got a long way to go, Mr. Harley, and you mustn’t think of hopping off the track just yet. I’ve got an idea how you feel—going home to an empty house; but you mustn’t let it get you down. You can’t do any good for Mrs. Harley, or the kiddie, by doing a thing like that. You’ve got the best part of your life before you. People are beginning to know you. Why, I even read your yarns myself, when they come my way———”

“But there really is a cat———”

“Yes, we know all about that,” interrupted Roy s%?rx}fully. “Now, don’t you go and do anything silly.”

Harley touched the driver’s sleeve, and, in the dim light, Roy saw that he smiled.

“You mustn’t let your imagination run away with you, Roy. We have a cat, and its name is ‘Ginger.’ It sits on the verandah-rail all day. It doesn’t like me, and I don’t like it; but—Grace—Mrs. Harley—was very fond of it. I’ve been thinking over it all the way, and, while I’d like to keep it for her sake, I—well, I couldn’t bear the thing looking at me day