Daphne sat with her patient until three o'clock, and then, overcome with the restlessness of impotent anxiety, and stimulated by an urgent telephonic reminder, ordered out the horses--not the motor. "Good-bye, old man," she said to Dawks, caressing the dog's long ears and unbecoming nose. "I'll be back in an hour or two. Lie quiet, and you'll soon be all right. Windebank says so." Mr Dawks whined gently and flapped his tail upon the floor, further intimating by a faint tremor of his ungainly body that if circumstances had permitted he would certainly have made a point of rising and accompanying his mistress to the door and seeing her off the premises. As things were, he must beg to be excused. Daphne drove to Croxley Dene, where for an hour or so she exchanged banalities with the rest of the county and played a set of tennis. She drove home in the cool of the evening, more composed in mind. The fresh air and exercise had done her good. Windebank had said that the dog would live: that was everything. Less satisfactory to contemplate was the approaching interview with her husband in the matter of the car. Until now she had not thought of it. On reaching home she hurried to the library, where she had left the invalid lying on a rug before the fire. Mr Dawks was not there. "I wonder if Windebank has taken him to the stable," she said to herself. "I'll go and----" She turned, and found herself face to face with her husband. "Jack," she asked nervously, "do you know where Dawks is? I suppose you have heard----" "Yes, I have heard." Daphne shrank back at the sound of his voice. His face was like flint. "Then--where is he?" she faltered. "Windebank said----" "I had him shot." Daphne stared at him incredulously. "You had him _shot_?" she said slowly. "_My_ Dawks?" "Yes. It was rank cruelty on your part keeping the poor brute alive, after--after reducing him to that state." The last half of the sentence may have been natural and justifiable, but no one could call it generous. It is not easy to be merciful when one is at white heat. Daphne stood up, very slim and straight, gazing stonily into her husband's face. "Have you buried him?" "I told one of the gardeners to do so." "Where?" "I did not say, but we can----" "I suppose you know," said Daphne with great deliberation, "that he was the only living creature in all this great house that loved me--really _loved_ me?" Verily, here was war. There was a tense silence for a moment, and an almost imperceptible flicker of some emotion passed over Juggernaut's face. Then he said, with equal deliberation-- "Without any exception?" "Yes, without _any_ exception!" cried poor Daphne, stabbing passionately in the dark. "And since he is dead," she added--"since you have killed him--I am going home to Dad and the boys! They love me!" She stood before her husband with her head thrown back defiantly, white and trembling with passion.