Chapter II: Part 2

“Then he means to make a long stay?”

His voice still sounded intensely suspicious. Suddenly I felt as if I could not stand all this subterfuge, as if I must brush away from me the spider’s web of mutual distrust in which my two friends were entangling me with each other.

“My dear fellow!” I exclaimed. “You really make me feel as if I were under cross-examination. I begin to wish I had never introduced you and Vernon to each other.”

Deeming stopped dead, and looked at me.

“Perhaps it would have been better,” he said. “Much better.”

“You think so, too? Why?”

“Can’t you see that Vernon hates me?” he said, with violence.

“What earthly reason can he have for hating you?”

“Some men don’t ask for reasons. There is something about me which is antipathetic to Vernon, and he’s a strange fellow. You think him gentle, I know. But I—well, I believe that underneath his apparent gentleness hides the soul of a fanatic, a black fanatic.”

We were still standing face to face. Now I looked into his eyes and said:

“I’m going to be very rude to you.”

“Go on. I’ll bear it.”

“I am perfectly certain you are suffering from nervous exhaustion. You have all the symptoms. You are horribly pale and shaky, and full of irritability and suspicion, ready to entertain any dark idea that may present itself to you, unable to see things in a clear light of reason.”

“And you, Luttrell; do you know what you are?”

“I!”

“Yes. I’m going to be rude to you. You are either a self-deceiver or a—well, something one doesn’t care to call a man. You know quite well, in your heart, that Vernon has come over so soon because—because⸺”

Suddenly he hesitated, faltered, broke off.

I seemed to hear the whimper of a dog near us in the night.

“I’ve had enough of the wind,” he said. “I’m going in.”

And we went back to the hotel without another word.

Next morning, Vernon and I went up to town by an early train, leaving Lord Elyn and Deeming to take their Channel trip. At Charing Cross, as we were parting, Vernon to go to Claridge’s and I to my flat in Albemarle Street, Vernon said, “By the way, what is Deeming’s address?”

“Three hundred, Wimpole Street,” I said.

He took out a card and a pencil.

“Three hundred, Wimpole Street,” he repeated slowly, as he wrote it down. “Good-bye. Let’s meet to-morrow. Come and lunch with me.”

He got into a hansom and drove away. I followed in a moment. As my cab came out of the station yard and crossed Trafalgar Square I was enveloped in what I called to myself “the London feeling.” The day was warm, but dull and grey. The tall buildings, the statue of Gordon, the Nelson column, the lions, looked sad and phantom-like to my eyes, for many months accustomed to the pellucid clearness of African landscapes, to the brilliant blue of Italian skies. And the well-known depression which always settles down upon me like a fog when I first return to London came to me once more, bathing me in a gloom which I strove in vain to shake off. In this gloom I seemed to see, like shadows passing in a fog, the forms of Vernon, of Deeming, and another form, small, black, and cringing, the form of a dog.

“P’f!” I said to myself. “Am I going to be the slave of a too sensitive imagination?”

And I resolutely began to think of pleasant things, of the friends, of the amusements, of the occupations that would solace me. Yet, when I reached Albemarle Street, I was heavy-hearted, and all that day and the next my depression persisted. Even a cheerful lunch with Vernon at Claridge’s and the renewal of many old acquaintanceships failed to restore me to my normal temper.

A week passed by, and I had not seen Deeming. I was beginning to wonder what had become of him, when I received from him a note asking me to dine with him at the Carlton on the following evening to meet Vernon. I was, unfortunately, already engaged to dine with some American friends and go to the play; so I wrote to excuse myself, and added this postscript—

“May your dinner banish your mutual misunderstanding. Remember that it will always be a grief to me if my two friends are at cross-purposes.”

The day after the dinner, when I had just come in from the club at seven o’clock in the evening, my servant announced “Doctor Deeming,” and Deeming walked into the room. I saw at once that he was in a condition of unusual excitement. We shook hands, and directly my man had gone out and the door was shut, Deeming, who was still standing and who did not seem to see the chair I offered to him, exclaimed—

“Of course, you have heard about Number 301?”

“Number 301? What the deuce do you mean?” I asked.

“Number 301, Wimpole Street, the house next door to mine.”

“What about it? Has it been burgled, or burnt down, or what?”

“Burnt down! Nonsense! It’s been to let for the last three months. Yesterday morning I found the board was down, and last night Vernon told me that he has taken it. He’s taken it as it is, furnished, and is going in at once.”

I was surprised, and, I suppose, showed that I was in my face, for he continued—

“Oh, then you didn’t know! He hadn’t told you!”

“He has told me nothing.”

“It’s a strange business. I—I⸺”

He began to walk to and fro.

“Why should he come to live next door to me? Why should he⸺?”

He stopped in front of me.

“Did you tell him where I lived?” he said, almost menacingly.

I resented his tone.

“Look here, Deeming,” I said, quietly. “If we are to continue friends, there must really be an end of all this mystery and suspicion about nothing. Why shouldn’t I tell Vernon where you live?”

“Did you tell him?”

“Certainly. He asked me, and of course I answered. Are you a criminal hiding from justice, and is Vernon a detective? Upon my word⸺”

I felt I was getting hot, and was silent. He stood quite still, staring at me for a moment with eyes that were almost fierce. Then he sat down on a sofa a little way from me, and said in a calmer voice—

“Yes, of course there was no reason. Still, it’s very odd. You must see that.”

“What is there odd in it? If it’s a good house, why shouldn’t Vernon take it as well as anyone else?”

“It’s a fairly good house.”

He moved, and leaned towards me.

“Originally,” he said, speaking slowly, “originally it was one with mine. The two houses were thrown into one. That was when Renold, the author, lived there. Afterwards, it was as it is now. But it’s still almost like one house.”

“How can that be?”

“Well, the alteration was very flimsily carried out, I suppose; for in the one house one can—I hope to goodness Vernon isn’t much of a musician.”

“You’re afraid of being disturbed?”

“If he plays the piano—by Jove!”

He burst into a laugh.

“Look out in the papers very soon,” he said. “I shall probably be bringing a case against him for annoyance. I can’t stand a hullabaloo next door after I’ve finished my day’s work. I want rest and peace. It’s no joke being a successful physician, I can tell you.”

I laughed too, almost as unnaturally as he had.

“Oh,” I said, “you needn’t be afraid. Vernon does play, but I’m sure, if you ask him, he’ll put his piano against the wall of the other house, and keep the windows shut when he is practising. Why didn’t you speak about it last night?”

“I’ll ask no favours of Vernon,” he said sternly.

Then he got up.

“I thought I’d just tell you,” he said. “Now I can’t stop. I’ve got a patient to see.”

He gave me a feverish hand, and went quickly out of the room.

While he was with me, I had endeavoured to make light of his news, to deceive him into the belief that I thought Vernon’s action a chance one, but directly I was alone I felt, though less agitated, nearly as angry at this affair as he did. It was a strange business—this pursuit. Deeming had said to me at Dover that Vernon was a “black fanatic”; what if it were so? What if my friend, so kind, so calm, even so unusually gentle in ordinary life, well balanced and eminently sane in his outlook upon men and affairs, really had a “screw loose”—to use the current phrase? What if the fate of his dog had actually affected his mind? I knew that there are men in the world who are sound on all subjects except one. Touch upon that subject, and they show an eccentricity that is akin to madness. It might be so with Vernon. I began to feel as if it must be so, and a great restlessness, a great uneasiness, beset me. Driven by it, I caught up my hat, hurried downstairs, hailed a hansom, and went to Claridge’s.

The hall-porter informed me that Mr. Kersteven was out.

“Do you happen to know where he has gone?” I asked.

“No, sir; he didn’t leave any word.”

My cab was waiting. I jumped into it again and called to the man—

“Go to 301, Wimpole Street.”

My instinct told me that I should find Vernon there.

Night was now falling. It was the hour when, to me, London presents its dreariest aspect. The streets are not yet thronged with those who, having worked during the day, are beginning to seek their nocturnal pleasures. The just-lit lamps are waging a feeble combat with the last fading rays of the flickering twilight. There is a sense of something closing in, like a furtive enemy, upon the great city. As I neared Wimpole Street I noticed that a fine rain was beginning to fall. The air was damp, without freshness, oppressive. In the gloom the cabman mistook the number and stopped at Deeming’s door. I got out quickly, paid and dismissed him, and was about to move on to Number 301, when it seemed to me that I heard the shrill, short whine of a dog. It startled me, and I remained where I was, listening in the rain. The sound was not repeated. I looked down the dismal street, but I saw no animal. I had not been able to locate the noise. I glanced at Deeming’s house. It was dark. Only from a window in the area shone a pale gleam of light. After two or three minutes’ hesitation I moved away, ascended the step of Number 301, and pressed the electric-bell. There was no response. I pressed it again and kept my finger upon it for at least a minute. This time my summons was answered, though in a rather unorthodox fashion. A window on the first-floor was pushed up, and I saw a vague face looking out at me from above.

“Vernon,” I said, “is it you?”

No voice replied, but the window was shut down, and almost directly, through some glass above the hall-door, I saw a bright light start up, and I heard a faint movement within. Then the door was opened and Vernon stood before me. He looked greatly surprised.

“You?” he said. “How on earth did you know I was here?”

“I didn’t know it. Can I come in?”

“Yes. Why not?”

But he still stood in the doorway, blocking up the entrance.

“You’re alone?” he asked, rather suspiciously.

“Quite alone.”

“Come in.”

I stepped into a hideous passage, and he at once shut the door.

“Well?” he said.

Not only his voice, but his attitude questioned me.

“I went to Claridge’s. They told me you were out, so I came on here on the chance that you might be looking over your new abode.”

“So Deeming’s been with you!”

“Yes, he came in for a minute, and mentioned casually that you had taken this house.”

“Oh! he mentioned it casually, did he? Well, come and have a look at it, won’t you?”

“If you don’t mind.”

He spoke with constraint, and so did I. Indeed, I had never before felt so uncomfortable with Vernon as I did at this moment. I did not know exactly what I had expected of him if I found him at the house; but it certainly was not this cold reserve, as of one who scarcely knew me, and to whom my appearance was unwelcome.

“It’s not a bad house,” he said, as we went towards the stairs. “It will do very well for me for the season.”

“You’re in luck, then.”

The words faltered on my lips even while I strove to speak carelessly, for, in truth, knowing Vernon as I did, knowing his house in Rome, it was almost impossible not to express my amazement at his choice—or, no, perhaps not that, for I could no longer be in any doubt as to why he had rented Number 301—but it was almost impossible to keep up the ridiculous pretence, forced upon me by his words and manner, that I thought he had rented Number 301 because it had seemed to him a suitable London home.

A more dreadful house I have seldom seen. The stamp of bad taste, of pretentious middleclass vulgarity, was upon it, showing in every detail, in the colouring of walls, in the patterns of carpets, in the shapes of the furniture, in the tiles of the hearths, in the very balusters and fire-irons. The mirrors were painted with bulrushes, poppies, tulips. Cushions of brown and sulphur-coloured plush lay upon settees that imitated shells. Chocolate-hued portières hung across double doors, upon which were views of Swiss lakes and Alpine heights. There were ceilings that represented the starry firmament, and there were floors that suggested the vegetable-monger’s shop. In “cosy corners,” thick with dusty draperies, nestled imitation beetles and frogs, among Japanese fans and squads of photographs of possibly well-known actresses, roofed in by open umbrellas of paper, from whose spokes hung gilded balls.

And there were yellow spotted palms in pots, wrapped, like a face distraught with toothache, in smothering cloths of bilious yellow and of shrieking green.

“Not a bad house, is it?” said Vernon once more, when we had partially explored it. By the words, by his manner, I was made at once to realise that from this moment he intended to keep me out of his confidence. Why this was so I could only try to surmise. As to action, all I could do was to accept the situation and follow him in travesty with as good a grace as possible. It was evident that Vernon’s suspicions of my good faith had been aroused by my unexpected visit, following so immediately upon Deeming’s announcement of the taking of the house, and that he had resolved to show me that he would not permit any criticism, even any discussion of his doings, however strange, however hostile to Deeming they must seem to me in the light of recent events.

“Not at all bad,” I answered.

We were standing at the moment in the terrible double drawing-room. I carefully abstained from looking round. There was an instant of, to me, rather embarrassing silence. Then Vernon said—

“Well, shall we go out together? It’s getting rather late. You hadn’t anything special to say to me, I suppose?”

“No, nothing. I just called at the hotel, and thought, as you were out, I might find you examining your new abode.”

Even as I spoke I involuntarily shuddered; I thought at the idea of Vernon living in this house, this inmost sanctuary of Philistinism.

“Why did you do that?” he said sharply.

“What?”

“Shiver like that. Did you—did you hear anything?”

His eyes searched mine; and once more I saw the fierce light in them.

“Hear? No. What should I hear?”

He did not answer; but continued to stare at me as if he doubted my words. Then he said abruptly:

“Let us be off, then.”

We descended the stairs and let ourselves out into the darkness and the rain. As we passed Deeming’s house I seemed once more to hear the shrill whimper of a dog. I wondered if Vernon had heard it too, for he hesitated by the step of the door, almost as if he thought of mounting it, and glanced swiftly down to the area, from which still shone the ray of light. But he said nothing, and we walked on, and were soon in the bustle of Oxford Street.

V

After seeing Vernon that evening in No. 301, Wimpole Street, I knew two things for certain. One was that he had taken the house in order to be next door to Deeming; the other, that whatever project he might have formed, whatever intention or desire was driving him on into a strange path, he did not mean me to know of it through him. I was to be shut out from his confidence.

This fact, while it irritated me, also relieved me. It rendered my position as the friend of both men more tenable than it could have been had Vernon confided in me. Now, if at any time Deeming were suspicious of me, I should be able to confront him with the complacency of a complete innocence, whereas hitherto I had more than once experienced the discomfort of—I hope I may say it without offence—an honourable man who is forced by circumstance to practise a mild deceit. This was a relief.

Nevertheless, I did feel both irritation and surprise at Vernon’s attitude towards me. It seemed to throw a chill over our friendship. If he had never spoken to me of Deeming and his black spaniel, the matter would not have troubled me, but a confidence begun and then abruptly discontinued surely implies that one’s friendship is doubted. I could no longer feel quite at ease when I was with Vernon. A dark and cringing shadow separated us.

Vernon moved into his dreadful house two days after I had first seen it. I naturally expected that, being a rich man, he would immediately begin to tear down draperies, to get in new furniture, to lay down carpets that did not recall the vegetable-monger’s, to turn out the frogs and the beetles, and to do away with the paper umbrellas. I was mistaken. He left things much as they were.

“I don’t suppose I shall be here long,” he said.

“I thought you had the house on a year’s lease?” I rejoined.

“The owner wouldn’t let it for a shorter time. But I don’t expect to be here for twelve months, or anything like it. I may be out of it in a month. Who knows?”

He glanced at me as if he expected me to find some hidden meaning in his words, some meaning which he did not choose to put before me.

“I’m not even going to be bothered with a staff of servants,” he continued. “I shall only have my man, Cragg, and one woman who can do all that is necessary for me.”

“Really! What does Cragg think of it?” I ventured.

“Oh, Cragg has been with me for years and thoroughly understands me.”

I knew that; I knew, too, that Cragg was a rare being, a confidential servant who was absolutely faithful. But, still, Cragg was unaccustomed to such a peculiar kind of “roughing it” as was now in prospect.

“I hope you’ll be comfortable,” I said, rather lamely.

“Oh, yes. Of course, I don’t intend to entertain here. I shall imitate Deeming. I shall exercise all my hospitality in restaurants. The Englishman’s house is more than ever his castle since the restaurant came into fashion.”

And he laughed.

“But perhaps, now I’m next door, Deeming may ask me in sometimes in the evening,” he said. “We ought to be neighbourly.”

Something in his voice, as he said the last words, turned me cold. I felt quite sure, for the first time, that hatred was blazing in his heart, hatred against Deeming. Of course, I could not speak of my new certainty now that I was confronted by his reserve, but a sudden idea sprang up within my brain. There was one way, and one way only, of brushing aside this spider’s-web of suspicion and intrigue, which was being woven day by day, and it was this. If I could only ascertain for myself, and prove to Vernon, that the mysterious black spaniel was happy as had been his “Whisper,” well-cared-for, well-loved, these two men who were at secret enmity would doubtless at once be reconciled, and I should no longer have to endure the vexation of being on uneasy terms with both. Vernon knew me well enough to know that if I made a solemn statement he could absolutely rely upon it. Deeming disliked him, as men generally and naturally dislike those who, without good reason, are suspicious of them. But though he was now cold and distant with me, I could not think that he disliked me. Where Vernon would probably fail, I might surely succeed. It was such a simple matter after all. I merely wanted to see a dog with his master, Deeming with his black spaniel. That could surely be managed without much difficulty and before many days had elapsed. I said nothing to Vernon of my project. Indeed, I resolved not to seek a meeting with him until I had accomplished it. Our present intercourse was too restrained to be particularly agreeable. The London season was setting in and there was much to be got through. I could easily avoid Vernon for a few days and, when I had the news I wanted, go to him and put an end to a condition of things at once painful and—so I called it resolutely to myself—ridiculous.

Having made up my mind, I had only to act. I must see Deeming’s black spaniel, and see him with his master.

I began my campaign by calling one evening at Deeming’s house at an hour when I thought it probable that the last sufferer would have gone. But I had miscalculated his popularity as a doctor. His extremely thin and sympathetic butler informed me in a whispering voice that the waiting-room was still thronged with anxious patients.

“When is he free?” I inquired.

“He is engaged all day, Sir, at this season of the year.”

“Does he never get out for a breath of air?”

“Oh, yes, Sir, when he drives out to the hospital.”

“And on a Sunday, I suppose. No doubt”—I tried to make my voice very natural and careless at this point—“he goes out on a Sunday if it’s fine, to give the dog a run, eh?”

It seemed to me that the butler’s pale face slightly twisted as I said the last words, as if he made a sudden effort not to show in it some expression which would have betrayed a feeling; as if he suppressed, perhaps, a smile, or concealed a knowing leer.

“The Doctor’s generally shut up on a Sunday, writing, Sir,” he murmured, “or pursuing his researches.”

“Oh!”

There seemed nothing more to be done just then, and as I saw a patient coming out and looking for his hat in the hall, I went away.

That evening I wrote to Deeming, telling him I had called to see if I could persuade him to take a stroll, as I was sure his health needed some rest, air, and relaxation.

“Will you come for a walk in Regent’s Park some Sunday morning?” I ended, regardless of the butler’s information.

He answered, by return, that he would come, if I liked, on the following Sunday. I replied, fixing the hour, and saying I would call for him. This done, I went out and—bought a dog.

It was a gay fox-terrier, young, full of abounding life, and quite ready to attach itself to anyone who was kind to it. When Sunday arrived, it was already devoted to me, and gleefully accompanied me to Wimpole Street to fetch Deeming for the promised walk. While I rang the bell it squatted on the step, wagging its short tail, and looking eagerly expectant. The butler opened the door.

“The Doctor is quite ready, Sir,” he said, when he saw me. “Will you step in?”

Suddenly he caught sight of the dog, who had jumped up when the door was opened, and was evidently preparing for exploration.

“Is that your dog, Sir?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I don’t think the Doctor⸺ Get back, you little beast!”

The last exclamation came in a voice so different from the whispering one I was accustomed to that I could hardly believe it was the butler who had spoken. At the same moment my dog dodged his outstretched foot and vanished, pattering, into the house.

“Call him back, Sir; call him back, for the Lord’s sake, or there’ll be trouble!” exclaimed the butler, turning sharply with the evident intention of trying to catch the little culprit. But he had no time to act nor I to call. Almost as he spoke there came from within the house the piercing cry of a dog in pain, and the fox-terrier darted out of the hall, down the street, and disappeared, yelping shrilly as he went, with his ears set flat against his head, and his tail tucked down in his back. As he vanished, Deeming appeared at the hall-door.

“How dare you let stray dogs into my house?” he said to the butler in a savage voice.

“I beg pardon, Sir,” stammered the butler; “but it was this gentleman’s dog, and⸺”

“It was your dog, was it?” said Deeming, turning to me. “I did not know you had a dog.”

I was feeling so angry that I could hardly trust myself to speak.

“Certainly it’s mine,” I said curtly. “I must go and find it.”

And without another word I walked away down the street. I could not discover the dog. Its terror had evidently been so great that it had fled blindly and far. From that day to this I have never seen it or heard anything of it. When it rushed out of Deeming’s house it rushed out of my life. Having failed to find it, after walking some distance, I gave up the search and stood still. The natural thing, I suppose, would have been to retrace my steps to Wimpole Street, where Deeming was waiting for me. But this I did not do. I felt that I could not do it. An invincible repulsion against Deeming’s society had come into my heart. When I thought of him I saw the fox-terrier fleeing, with his ears set back against his head; I heard the yelping of a dog.

I stood, therefore, for a moment, and then walked home to Albemarle Street.

I had bought the dog in order to find out, if possible, how Deeming was with animals, how they comported themselves towards him. Secondarily I had thought of using the dog as a pretext for introducing the subject of the black spaniel. I had meant, when Deeming came out, to point to my dog and suggest that, as I had mine with me for the walk, he should bring out his.

Well, my curiosity had surely been satisfied. I had not, it is true, seen the mysterious black spaniel; but I could hardly remain in doubt as to Deeming’s attitude towards pet animals. The expression upon his face as he came out from the hall had been ferocious. Vernon was right. Deeming was a cruel man.

As I realised that, I began to wonder more about the black spaniel. Why should such a man keep a pet—a man, too, who was so incessantly occupied that he had no time for amusement, for almost any relaxations? And why had the butler—for I now felt sure that I had seen his face contorted for an instant on the evening when I had spoken to him of the black spaniel—why had the butler felt such amazement, or bitter contempt, or sardonic amusement, when I had alluded to the possibility of Deeming giving the black spaniel a run?

It almost began to seem to me just then as if the black spaniel were a baleful chimera, like the creation of a madman’s brain, a nothingness that yet can govern, can terrify, can cause tragic events and lead to bitterness and crime. Who had ever seen this creature? Where was it, in what place of concealment? Did it ever come forth into the light of day? I longed to know something of it, of its existence in that house, of its relations with its master.

Perhaps Vernon knew or would know. He lived next door. He had gone there to discover; of that I was sure. He watched at his window to see the spaniel let out. He listened at his wall at night, perhaps, to hear its whining.

Perhaps Vernon knew or would know.

And when he knew, would he tell me?

In the afternoon of that day I received a note from Deeming—

I waited for you to come back for an age. What was the matter? I am
very sorry about your dog. The fact is I am not very well and in a
nervous condition, and it startled me to come suddenly upon it in
the dimly lighted hall. Let me know when we can meet.

P. D.

That was the note. I read it several times before I threw it into the waste-paper basket. But I did not answer it. I felt that I did not want to meet Deeming again for some time.

I felt that. Fate willed it that I should never look upon him again as mortal man. Within two days from that time I was called to the North of England by the serious illness of my dear mother, who lived in Cumberland. And there I remained until she died. Her death took place on the twenty-seventh of June. Her funeral was three days later. After it was over I returned to the house where I had been born, where I was now quite alone with the servants. I had to wind up many affairs, to put many things in order, to sort and examine papers and pay off some of the household. Despite my grief I was obliged to be busy, to be practical. For several days I was so much occupied that I did not look at a newspaper. I even set aside the letters that came by the post—letters of condolence, I felt sure they were, most of them—wishing to read them and answer them all together when I had leisure, and felt less miserable and deserted, and more able to take an interest in such affairs as were not actually forced upon me.

At last one evening I had got through everything. I had dined, and was sitting alone in the drawing-room, where my mother had always sat, feeling really almost as if I dwelt in a world unpeopled, or peopled only by the spectres of those who once had lived, when a servant came in with the last post. There were no letters, only two or three papers from London. Without interest, merely to do something, I tore the paper covering from one and unfolded it. My eyes fell at once upon the following paragraph—

As so many rumours have been put into circulation with regard to
the lamented decease of Dr. Peter Deeming, which took place on
the 30th of June, we are glad to be able to state authoritatively
that the actual cause of death was blood-poisoning, which was, it
seems, set up by the bite of a dog. Doctor Deeming, like many other
eminent medical men, while solicitous for the health of others,
was singularly careless about his own. The bite was severe, but
he took little heed of it, although he had the dog, which was a
pet, destroyed. He has now paid the penalty of his regrettable
carelessness, and society is the poorer. For no West End physician
was more trusted and esteemed by his patients than Dr. Deeming.

The paper dropped from my hand.

So Deeming and the black spaniel were dead! And each had destroyed the other!

PART II—THE RESURRECTION

VI

Peter Deeming died on the thirtieth of June, in the year 1900. In June of the following year, as I was walking past the Knightsbridge Barracks, I met Vernon strolling along in the sunshine, with a cigarette in his mouth. When he saw me, he stopped, took my hand, and clasped it warmly.

“Back at last!” he said.

“Yes. I only arrived yesterday. Did you winter in Rome, as usual?”

“No. I’ve not been out of England.”

“Good Heavens!” I exclaimed. “You don’t mean to say you’ve been facing the London fogs while I’ve been in Africa and Sicily?”

He nodded.

“What can have been your reason?”

He put his arm through mine.

“Let’s go into the Park,” he said. “We’ll take a stroll, and I’ll tell you.”

We turned into the Park by the nearest gate, and walked gently along under the trees. It was a strangely radiant day for London—a day that seemed full of hope and gaiety. Many children were about laughing, playing, calling to each other. Poor people basked in the sunshine, stretched upon the short grass. Carriages rolled by, drawn by fine horses. In the trees the birds were singing, as innocently as they sing in retired country places. And I felt glad and at ease. It was pleasant to be with Vernon once more, pleasant to be once more in my own land among my own people.

“Well, Vernon?” I said.

“First,” he answered, “you must tell me something. You must tell me why you left England after the death of your mother, without coming to say good-bye to me.”

“I felt upset, broken down, as if I didn’t want to see anyone, as if I wanted to get away and be alone among new scenes and people who were strangers.”

“That was it?”

I heard the doubt in his voice, and added—

“There was another reason, too, an under-reason.”

“Yes?”

“That sudden death of poor Deeming, coming just after my mother’s, upset my nerves, I think. It made me feel as if—as if I had been cruel. It filled me with regret.”

“Cruel! I don’t understand.”

“No. How could you? But when a man’s dead, one thinks very differently about him often. And I had been suspicious of Deeming. At the end, indeed, I had been unfriendly.”

“I am quite in the dark,” he said, rather coldly, I thought.

I explained to him what I meant. I told him of my last meeting with Deeming, of the incident of the fox-terrier, of Deeming’s note to me, of how I had left it unanswered. He listened with a profound attention.

“When I read of his death in the paper I wished I had answered his note,” I concluded. “I wished it more than I can tell you. And I regretted bitterly that the last weeks of our intercourse had been clouded by suspicion, by misunderstanding.”

“Ah!”

His voice still sounded cold. After a moment he said:

“And you didn’t come to see me because⸺”

“Well, you had been mixed up with my suspicion of Deeming, and⸺”

“Now I understand. You felt a very natural longing to be away from all that recalled sadness to you, that might deepen your grief or serve to irritate your nerves.”

“I suppose that was it. I went right away. I wanted to forget, to escape out of a dark cloud into a clear atmosphere. But you? Why have you been in London all this time?”

“I’ve been working.”

“Working! You?”

“Even I—idler, dilettante.”

“Music?”

“I’ve been working with Arthur Gernham.”

“For the animals?”

“Exactly. For our brothers and sisters who do not speak our language. I’ve been writing pamphlets, I’ve been gathering subscriptions, I’ve been stirring people up, and by doing so I’ve been stirring myself up, my slothful, sluggish, unpractical self.”

“Wonderful!”

“Isn’t it? Do you know that I’ve toured the United Kingdom giving lectures on the subject of man’s duty to the animals, that I’ve helped to form a league of kindness? Luttrell, I’m a busy man now, and I am an enthusiastic man.”

While he spoke his animation had been growing, and as he ended his voice was full of energy.

“And when did the impulse come to you to begin this new life?” I asked.

“I can tell you the very day,” he said. “It was on June the 30th of last year.”

“June the 30th!” I said. “Why, that was the day that Deeming died!”

“Well, it was on that day.”

I looked at him sharply. I had never yet heard any details connected with the accident that had brought about Deeming’s illness and so caused his death. I wondered if Vernon knew any. He had lived next door. I longed to ask him, but something, some inner voice of my nature, advised me not to.

“Is Gernham a good fellow?” I said carelessly.

“A splendid fellow. You must know him.”

“As you have changed so much,” I continued, “have you altered that resolution of yours?”

“What resolution?”

“Never to make another animal happy as you made your spaniel, Whisper, happy?”

“Ah, that—no! I could never have another pet. I suffered too much from my affection, Luttrell. I am resolved not to suffer again in that way. The mountains may fall, but I shall never keep another dog.”

He spoke with a decision that carried conviction. At that moment I should have been ready to stake my entire fortune on his sticking to his assertion and backing it up by his acts. If anyone had come to me that night and said, “Your friend Vernon has just bought a dog and taken it home to live with him,” I should have laughed, and answered in polite terms, “You’re a liar.” But one cannot deny the evidence of one’s own eyes.

Now this is exactly what occurred.

While we walked along beneath the trees, not very far from the Statue of Achilles, I saw in the distance a man approaching us, leading a number of dogs by strings and carrying a couple of puppies under his arms. He wore a fur cap and earrings, a short, loud-patterned coat with tails, and a pair of very tight trousers. As he drew near I saw that among the dogs who accompanied him there was a fine black spaniel.

“Here comes a choice assortment of dumb friends,” I said to Vernon.

“Yes.”

I saw him looking at the dogs, which were sniffing the air, and pulling at their leads in the endeavour to investigate delicious smells. Suddenly he stopped short, just as the man was passing us. At the same moment I saw the black spaniel shrink back and cower down against the ground, pressing his broad, flapping ears against his head.

“What is it, Vernon?” I said.

He did not reply. He was staring at the spaniel. The owner of the dogs saw a possible purchaser, and at once, in a soft and very disagreeable voice, began to enumerate their merits.

“H’sh!” Vernon hissed at him.

The man stopped in astonishment.

“That dog there,” said Vernon, pointing to the black spaniel, which was still shrinking down, and pulling back from his lead in an effort to get away. “How long have you had him?”

“Ever since he was baun, gen’leman,” replied the man. “’E’s the gentlenist, the best-mannered dawg as hiver⸺”

“How old is he? What’s his age?”

“Just upon a year, Sir, a year ’e’ll be this very selfsame month. ’E was one of as fine a litter o’ pups as⸺”

“You bred him?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“A year old, is he?”

“Just upon, Sir. The thirtieth’s the day, Sir—the thirtieth of this selfsame month. Law bless you, I knows the birthdays of hivery dawg as hiver⸺”

“What’s his price?”

The man licked his lips, and I saw a gleam in his small eyes.

“Well, Sir, I dunno as I’m dispoged to part with ’im. You see, I gets to love⸺”

“How much?”

The tone was sharp. The words came almost like a pistol-shot.

“Ten puns, Sir,” said the man. “I should say, fifteen puns, Sir.”

“I’ll give you twelve.”

“I reely couldn’t tike it, Sir. The dawg’s the very happle of⸺”

“There’s my address—301, Wimpole Street.” He gave the man his card. “Bring the dog there at six o’clock this evening, and you shall have twelve pounds, not a penny more. Good-day.”

“I’ll be there, Sir. You can trust me, you can⸺”

We walked on. As we did so, the spaniel whimpered, ran to his master, and fawned about his legs as if demanding protection.

For several minutes neither Vernon nor I said a word. I was in amazement. What had just happened may seem to some a very small matter. To me it seemed extraordinary, mysterious, even—I could not tell why—horrible. There had been something peculiar in Vernon’s attitude, in his face, while he stood looking at the spaniel, something fatal that had affected my nerves. Then my wonder was naturally great that such a man should thus abruptly go back from his word. And the spaniel’s cringing attitude of terror when Vernon had gazed at him, had spoken to his master, was disagreeable to me, acutely disagreeable in the remembrance of it! It seemed to me very strange and unnatural that such an ardent lover of animals as Vernon was should inspire an animal with fear. Animals have an instinct that always tells them who loves them. This spaniel was apparently without this instinct.

Perhaps it was this lack in him that made me now think of him with a faint dislike, even a faint disgust, such as the healthy-minded feel when brought into contact with anything unnatural.

I broke the silence first.

“I did not know you were a changeable man,” I said.

“You mean that I have changed my mind about keeping a dog.”

“Yes, and with such extraordinary suddenness.”

“I suppose it does seem odd,” he remarked. “But who knows what he will do?”

“But—what was your reason?”

He looked at me, very strangely, I thought.

“A sudden impulse,” he answered. “A memory, perhaps, moved me.”

“The memory of Whisper?”

“Of Whisper—of course.”

His voice seemed to me just then as strange as his face. Perhaps seeing that I still wondered, he added—

“That spaniel appeared to be nervous, terrified. Perhaps that man is cruel to it.”

“Oh, but⸺” I began, and stopped.

“What is it?”

“You didn’t think—it seemed to me that it was you who inspired the dog with fear.”

“I!” He laughed. “My dear fellow, a dog-lover like myself cannot inspire a dog with fear. You must be mistaken. Animals always know who loves them.”

“Yes. It’s very strange,” I murmured.

“What is strange?” he asked, in rather a hard voice.

“Oh, I don’t know—nothing,” I answered evasively. “Here we are at the gate.”

“Yes. Well, you are coming to see me?”

“Of course. You are still in that house?”

“Oh, yes. It suits me. When will you come?”

“Whenever you like.”

He stood for a moment, making patterns with his stick on the pavement and looking down. Then he glanced up at me.

“Come and have a cup of tea this afternoon at half-past five, will you?” he said.

I immediately thought of the man with the earrings and the fur cap. Then I was to see the transfer of the black spaniel.

“I’ll come,” I answered.

“Right!”

Vernon nodded and walked away slowly in the direction of Hamilton Place.

VII

At a quarter past five that day I started for Wimpole Street, filled with a sensation of strong curiosity, for which, in mental debate with myself, I could not quite satisfactorily account. It was a very ordinary matter, surely, this selling and buying of a dog. Why, then, did it seem to me an affair of importance? I asked myself that question while I waited. The only answer I could find was that the dog was a black spaniel, and that before the sad death of my friend Deeming a black spaniel, the creature that had caused the tragedy, had mysteriously complicated, and indeed altered, my pleasant relations both with him and with Vernon. But all that was a year ago. The past does not return, and therefore it was absurd to be—to be—what? What was really the exact nature of the emotion that now beset me? Had I been strictly truthful with myself I should, perhaps, have called it apprehension. But we are not always strictly truthful even with ourselves. I think that day I named it nervousness. I was nervous, out of sorts, a little bit depressed. Vernon’s _volte-face_ had surprised me. The dog’s cringing fear had made an unpleasant impression upon me. And so, now, as I drew near to Wimpole Street I was slightly strung up. That was the long and short of it.

In some such fashion I think I spoke to myself, explanatorily, falsely.

When I turned into Wimpole Street the image of poor Deeming was very present in my mind, and I could scarcely believe that he did not still inhabit the house to which I had come that Sunday morning. I wondered who lived there now, who was Vernon’s neighbour; and when I reached the house I looked towards it with a sad curiosity, which quickly changed to surprise. The house was transformed. Where once had been a doorstep there was now an area railing. The front door had vanished. In its place was a window, with a box in which roses and geraniums were blooming. In a moment I realised what had happened. Formerly the two houses—Nos. 300 and 301—had been one house. Since I had been there they had once more been thrown together. Vernon, then, was living now in the house that had been Deeming’s. As I grasped this fact, Vernon appeared at a window of what had been the second house. Seeing me, he smiled and waved his hand. Before I could ring, the door was opened by Cragg, his faithful man.

“Glad to see you again, Sir,” said Cragg, with a respectful bow which he had learnt, I think, in Italy.

He had several little foreign ways, but was extremely English in appearance—calm, solid, neat, and closely shaven.

I returned his greeting and stepped in.

“Ah,” I said, looking round. “So it’s all changed.”

“Yes, Sir. After Doctor Deeming’s death we got rid of the old stuff, and Mr. Kersteven bought the Doctor’s house and threw the two houses into one. It’s more suitable now.”

“It was awful before.”

“Well, Sir, it was scarcely to Mr. Kersteven’s taste. We rather roughed it for a time, Sir.”

He took my hat and stick and showed me upstairs into a charming drawing-room, in which I at once recognised many beautiful things from Vernon’s house in Rome. Here Vernon met me with an outstretched hand.

“By Jove, what a transformation!” I exclaimed.

“To be sure, you haven’t seen it since⸺”

“Since the frogs and the beetles and the Japanese umbrellas were turned out. No. And so now you’ve got Deeming’s house too?”

“Yes. I have joined the two together, but I use his chiefly for my work in connection with our dumb friends.”

“Oh!”

His voice was significant in that last sentence, and I realised that in him imagination was often the guide, leading him strangely, dominating him powerfully.

Tea was ready, and we sat down.

Giving expression to my thought, I said, “Strange that you should be living in Deeming’s house.”

“Why so?”

“Oh, well, you were antagonists, weren’t you?”

“Could the difference between us be called antagonism?” he asked, pouring out the tea.

“Wasn’t it? Once Deeming told me that he knew⸺”

I hesitated.

“Knew what?”

“Knew that you hated him.”

“Really. Did he say that?”

“Was it true?”

“Why discuss it?”

“You’re right. It’s all over now. And he, poor chap, has gone beyond the reach of earthly love or hate.”

He made no rejoinder, and I had an odd feeling as if he were silent because I had said something with which he did not agree; yet that was not possible.

“Do you think,” I said, to change the subject, “do you think that fellow will come?”

“The dog-fancier? Oh, I suppose so. He won’t let slip a chance of making twelve pounds. His dog isn’t worth more than six.”

“Then why do you give double?”

“A caprice.”

“I begin to think you are a capricious man,” I said.

“The dilettante generally is.”

He drew out his watch.

“It’s close upon six. That chap ought to be here in a moment. Ah, there’s the bell! He’s come, no doubt.”

I was conscious of a certain discomfort, but scarcely knew its cause. Putting down my cup, I sat listening intently. Vernon, too, was listening. There was in his face an expression of strained attention. When the door opened gently, I started and looked hastily round.

“Lord Elyn!” said Vernon, getting up from his chair.

“Yes. Glad to find you at home. Hulloa, Luttrell! So you’re back at last! I haven’t seen you since the death of our poor friend Deeming.”

He shook my hand.

“That was a sad business. No one to take his place. No one like him, is there?”

He sat down and stretched his legs. I said something suitable, but with rather an uncertain voice. This unexpected arrival irritated me. And yet I thoroughly liked Lord Elyn. Vernon, too—I felt sure of it—was vexed by his arrival, but he was charmingly courteous, though, in the trifling conversation that followed, he showed traces of absent-mindedness. I knew he was listening for the sound of the bell. I knew he was eagerly awaiting the arrival of the black spaniel. Six o’clock struck. The hand of a clock on the mantelpiece pointed to five minutes, then to ten minutes past six. Vernon began to betray a certain restlessness, a certain uneasiness. He twice changed his place in the room. Finally, he got up and remained standing.

“You are expecting someone?” said Lord Elyn, looking at him in some surprise.

“Yes. The fact is I’ve bought a dog—or named my price for one—and he ought to be brought here this evening.”

“Oh, I’m very fond of dogs. Kept them all my life. What sort of animal is this one?”

“A black⸺there’s the bell!”

He broke off, went swiftly over to the window and looked out. As he stood with his back turned to us I heard him utter a low exclamation.

“What did you say, Vernon?” I asked sharply.

I had not heard a word, but there was a thrilling sound in his voice which startled me. I got up also from my chair, possessed, gnawed by an inexplicable restlessness. Vernon turned round from the window. I saw the strange light in his eyes which I had sometimes noticed there when he talked about the animals and their relation with man.

“It’s the spaniel,” he said.

The words were simple enough, but the way in which he said them was not simple. It sounded cruel and triumphant.

Lord Elyn looked more surprised. He also got up.

“The arrival of this dog seems quite an event,” he said.

“Yes, quite an event,” repeated Vernon, looking towards the door. “It’s years since I’ve had a—pet.”

“If you please, Sir, there’s a person here with a dog.”

“I know. I expected him.”

“Indeed, Sir. Am I to admit him?”

“Certainly.”

“And the dog, Sir? Is he to come in too?”

“Of course. It’s the dog I want, not the man.”

Cragg remained in the doorway, looking at his master.

“What is it, Cragg?” asked Vernon. “What the deuce is the matter?”

“Well, Sir, I don’t see—I don’t, really—how we are ever going to get that dog into the house.”

“What do you mean?” said Vernon.

On his lips there was playing a slight smile.

“I never see an animal in such a state, Sir; I really never did. Hark, Sir!”

He lifted his hand. From below there came to us the sound of a long-drawn howling. Again I felt a cold chill go over me. Lord Elyn, too, was unpleasantly affected. He shook his shoulders, and said—

“Good God, what a dreadful noise! It sounds like something being tortured.”

Vernon was still smiling.

“Oh!” he said; “it’s only the natural nervousness of a dog brought to a strange house to change one master for another. Go along, Cragg. Show the man into my study. I’ll come down in a moment.”

Still looking very doubtful, Cragg disappeared, shutting the door. We three remained silent for a moment. Then Vernon said—

“I’m afraid you’re having a very fussy visit, Lord Elyn. Do sit down. I’ll go and pay the man, and be back in a minute.”

It was evident to me that he wanted—wanted ungovernably—to see the dog brought into the house. As he stopped speaking he was gone. He had almost darted out of the room.

“Dear me!” said Lord Elyn. “Dear me.”