“That is a question we are so often asked. His mother is a prize poodle, his father a small black spaniel. We have never quite decided what we shall bring him up as, sometimes we think we’ll clip him and pass him off as a poodle.” “Oh, he is much more of a spaniel--look at his ears and tail,” objected the new chauffeur. “Of course he _is_ a bit too leggy.” “Yes; I’m afraid poor Joss’s appearance is against him, but his heart is in the right place.” “Dogs’ hearts always are.” “Joss is so sporting, if he only had a chance,” continued Miss Susan. “He swims like a fish and is crazy after water-fowl--that is the spaniel side. The poodle blood makes him clever, sly, inquisitive, and as mischievous as a monkey.” “Is he your dog, miss?” “No, he belongs to my sister, though she does not care for animals; but she says a dog about the place makes a topic of conversation for callers. We country folk are often hard up; the weather and gardens are our chief subjects. Joss is a capital watch--though I hate to see him chained here day after day. I believe a young dog requires liberty--yes, and amusement--as much as a human being.” She glanced at Owen. “You will think me silly!” “No, miss, I’m entirely of your opinion.” “And poor Joss leads such a dull life; there are no young people to take him out, and no dogs of his own class in the village, and now”--as she began to draw the bolts of a coach-house door, but Owen came forward--“here is the motor;” and, taking a long breath, she ejaculated, “There!” There indeed was the car, newly painted, and dark green, as described. It was a closed motor brougham to hold four. Owen examined it critically, and with the eye of an expert. Within the last few days he had become rather wise respecting cars. This was an old-fashioned machine, which had seen a great deal of hard wear, and would not stand much rough usage--no, nor many long journeys. “_Isn’t_ it nice?” said Miss Susan, “and do look at all the lovely pockets inside,” opening the door as she spoke. “Yes; but I don’t see any Stepney wheel,” he said. “Why, it has four--what more do you want?” To which he replied by another question: “Where did Miss Parrett get hold of it?” “Oh, she bought it through an advertisement from a gentleman who had ordered a larger car, and as he didn’t want two--indeed, he made rather a favour of selling it--he parted with this one, a bargain.” “Oh--a bargain!” he repeated helplessly. “Well, I suppose it _was_ cheap for five hundred?” Wynyard made no reply; in his opinion the machine would have been dear at fifty. It was evident that some unscrupulous rascal had foisted an old-fashioned rattle-trap upon these ignorant and unsuspicious ladies.