"Then there are black cats," he went on; "they're said to be lucky.
Why, there never was a blacker cat than the one that followed me
into my rooms in Bolsover Street the very first night I took them."
"Didn't it bring you luck?" I enquired, finding that he had
stopped.
A far-away look came into his eyes.
"Well, of course it all depends," he answered dreamily. "Maybe
we'd never have suited one another; you can always look at it that
way. Still, I'd like to have tried."
He sat staring out of the window, and for a while I did not care to
intrude upon his evidently painful memories.
"What happened then?" I asked, however, at last.
He roused himself from his reverie.
"Oh," he said. "Nothing extraordinary. She had to leave London
for a time, and gave me her pet canary to take charge of while she
was away."
"But it wasn't your fault," I urged.
"No, perhaps not," he agreed; "but it created a coldness which
others were not slow to take advantage of."
"I offered her the cat, too," he added, but more to himself than to
me.
We sat and smoked in silence. I felt that the consolations of a
stranger would sound weak.
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