"I will admit," I improvised, "that this may be one of those odd and precious pieces that some collector covets; and by terrorizing the dealer, he hopes to beat down the price . . . only I came along and crabbed the game, so I'm getting a taste of some collector's schrechlichkeit. . . ."
Rather good, what? I thought so; and Annie didn't argue. Yvonne was thrilled at the glittering notion. And with peace once more restored, we sought what little sleep could be salvaged from the remains of the night.
Yvonne spent a considerable portion of the following day in cleaning and polishing her prize; and when a number of her friends came in to tea, they went into raptures over it, especially over its feet and legs, which took their fancy enormously. Yvonne, strutting her table as though she herself had carved it, spoke of the faint tiger markings and the almost imperceptible convexity of the top; and then she abruptly changed the subject, for not a trace of either peculiarity was visible. Strange, very strange; but perhaps those oddities were brought out only by artificial light—those, and other oddities, I found myself thinking, in spite of myself.
"I can't believe those claws are wooden," remarked one of the ladies from Glebe Place, as she bent down to examine them. "So very lifelike, and so beautifully shaped, and so dreadfully sharp and cruel. One can imagine them tearing and rending one to pieces."
"How fantastic!"
Yvonne laughed. But I caught a troubled light in her eyes.
That night before going to bed we moved the table very carefully into one corner of the drawing-room, locked the door, and took out the key. Being very tired, we were soon asleep.
But my sleep was troubled. A solemn, deep-toned purring rolled in my ears, impressing itself on my sleep, and finally increasing to a pitch that woke me from my troubled half-sleep. Then, as before, came that dull thump-thump as of some wooden monster seeking to advance stealthily.
"Good Lord, again?" I groaned wearily.
And then
A crashing, splintering, tinkling; the fearful screech of a small beast in mortal agony.
Annie burst into our room.
Again that scream of anguish.
And I repeated last night’s ritual, slinking down the hall, pistol in hand. The floor and walls trembled under that horrible thumping and pounding; but I finally did set the key in place, turned it
As I reached in for the switch, a terrific crash against the door-jamb nearly knocked me from my feet. I opened up with the .45; and at the same instant, with my left hand, found the switch.
Silence. Deathly, oppressive. The hard, seasoned edge of the table had sunk deep into the softer wood of the door-jamb. But this time no Kurdish rug was wrapped about the legs of the table. Those feet—beautifully carved feet with exquisite claws—gleamed bloodily; and beneath them, pounded to shreds, mashed into the floor by that hardwood beast of prey, was Miggles, the cat whose mortal screams had awakened me.
Poor little kitten! We'd locked her in with that awful table.
Yvonne passed out then and there. I carried her to our bedroom and, leaving Annie to apply a few restoratives, returned to patch up some semblance of order. Believe me or not, it did take a bit of nerve to return to that fiend-ridden drawing-room.
I had scarcely entered when there came a pounding on our door, and
