cheesehopkins

It was a dark night in late October sometime in the mid 1950's. Harold, I believe his name was, was relaxing in his study after a long day at work.  He sat in his grand chair reading the business section of the New York Times, sipping at his scotch and smoking a hickory pipe.  The fireplace was giving off a warm glow that illuminated the area where he sat. To Harold, this night was nothing out of the ordinary. Harold lived in a grand estate that he bought when he struck rich in the stock market.  Although his home was large and had many rooms, Harold lived alone. The only company he had in the large place was his cat Quinton.  Quinton was a