"Sheba," said the Duke of Walsingham to the cat, in the low voice, the one that had talked to her on a kitchen floor every night for three weeks.And the cat, who had answered to no name in ten years, opened her yellow eyes, and looked up at him. Whether it was the name, or the voice that had spoken to her every night for three weeks, nobody in that forge could have said. But Jethro Mabbott saw the cat look up, and the Duke of Brigstock at the bellows saw it, and Abigail, in the door, put her hand over her mouth."You said she only came for the fish," said Horatio. He said it plainly, as a correction; it was the thing he had worked out on the floor of her kitchen and had never had the sentence for until now. "She has never once eaten the fish. Three herrings, on three Fridays, and she has not touched one. She came for the coat because the coat smelled of your kitchen, Abigail, and the coat smelled of your kitchen because I left it hanging by your fire every night while I sat on a stool that did not fit me, to be where you were. I was the coat. That's all I was. And last night the coat was gone, and she went to the chair anyway.""I know she did," said Abigail. "I saw her.""Then you know what she came for.""Yes."He took a breath. He was very big and very fair and very red, and he had used up every sentence he owned, and there was one more."Abigail, I love you.""I love you, Horatio," said Abigail Tinsley from the door. And then, because he was standing there with his hat in his hand as though he had still to be told why: "You told her you were no use to anybody who couldn't be shod or fed. I heard you. You're the only man in Sedgebrook she and I both followed home."