"You must advertise for a cat with a blue spot on its tail," said
Max.
"It will cost a pretty penny," said Ismay dolefully. "Fatima was
valued at one hundred dollars."
"We must take the money we have been saving for our new furs," I
said sorrowfully. "There is no other way out of it. It will
cost us a good deal more if we lose Aunt Cynthia's favor. She is
quite capable of believing that we have made away with Fatima
deliberately and with malice aforethought."
So we advertised. Max went to town and had the notice inserted
in the most important daily. We asked any one who had a white
Persian cat, with a blue spot on the tip of its tail, to dispose
of, to communicate with M. I., care of the _Enterprise_.
We really did not have much hope that anything would come of it,
so we were surprised and delighted over the letter Max brought
home from town four days later. It was a type-written screed
from Halifax stating that the writer had for sale a white Persian
cat answering to our description. The price was a hundred and
ten dollars, and, if M. I. cared to go to Halifax and inspect the
animal, it would be found at 110 Hollis Street, by inquiring for
"Persian."
"Temper your joy, my friends," said Ismay, gloomily. "The cat
may not suit. The blue spot may be too big or too small or not
in the right place. I consistently refuse to believe that any
good thing can come out of this deplorable affair.
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