The cat began to purr.

"Sylvester!" cried a voice from the doorway. "Sylvester, cut that out!"

The cat raked Maxwell's face once again with its moist and rasping tongue, then sat back upon its haunches, with a half-grin on its face and its ears tipped forward, regarding Maxwell with a friendly and enthusiastic interest.

Maxwell struggled to a half-sitting posture, with the small of his back resting on the seat cushions and his shoulders propped against the couch's back.

"And who might you be?" asked the girl standing in the doorway.

"Why, I..."

"You've got your nerve," she said.

Sylvester purred loudly.

"I'm sorry; miss," said Maxwell. "But I live here. Or at least, I did. Isn't this Seven-twenty-one?"

"It is, - indeed," she said. "I rented it just a week ago."

Maxwell shook his head. "I should have known," he said. "The furniture was wrong.

"I had the landlord throw out the stuff," she said. "It was simply atrocious."

"Let me guess," said Maxwell. "An old green lounger, somewhat the worse for wear-"

"And a walnut liquor cabinet," said the girl, "and a monstrous seascape and-"

Maxwell lifted his head wearily. "That's enough," he said. "That was my stuff that you had thrown out."

"I don't understand," said the girl. "The landlord said the former occupant was dead. An accident, I think."

Maxwell got slowly to his feet. The big cat stood up, moved closer, rubbed affectionately against his legs.

"Stop that, Sylvester," said the girl.

Sylvester went on rubbing.

"You mustn't mind him," she said. "He's just a great big baby."

"A bio-mech?"

She nodded. "The cutest thing alive. He goes everywhere with me. He seldom is a bother. I don't know what's got into him. It seems that he must like you."