"My fellow," said he, "listen. In these very precincts you committed an aggravated assault upon an Irish terrier. I don't blame you. He probably deserved it. But--he belongs to the lady--my lady, Patch, the only lady in the world. And she didn't like it, my boy. She didn't like it at all. So remember, if ever we meet her again, you mustn't fight. I don't want to be hard on you, but you mustn't. Of course, if you could show him a little courtesy--indicate a scent which will repay investigation, or something--I should be exalted. But I don't press that. A strictly non-committal attitude will serve. But aggression--no. Patch, I trust you. I know it's difficult for you to understand, but you'll be a good dog and try, won't you? For my sake, Patch?" Whether the Sealyham in fact appreciated the nature and gravity of the request is a matter which cannot be decided upon this side of the grave. The fact remains that when, upon entering the grounds of the Dogs' Home some thirty-five minutes later, he encountered that very Irish terrier, looking rather sorry for himself and attached to the end of a long lead, he walked straight up to him and bestowed upon him as generous a greeting as his nostrils and tail could convey. Anthony could hardly believe his eyes.... At the other end of the lead was a kennelman, who spoke quickly and to the point. "Beggin' your pardon, sir, but I wouldn't let 'im talk to 'im. 'E's not very grand--this little dog ain't. I think it's only a chill, but we've hisolated 'im, in case..." Patch was summoned peremptorily, to come running wide-eyed. Happily in his sight his master could do no wrong; otherwise it is possible that he might have thought himself hardly used and love's labour lost indeed. Anthony passed into the hall, thinking furiously. With Patch under his arm, he spoke to the fair-haired girl in charge of the office. "I've seen a dog out there that I recognize--an Irish terrier. He's not very well, your man said. May I know whose he is?" "Oh, yes. He belongs to Miss French--Miss Valerie French. He's a nice little dog, isn't he?" If Anthony Lyveden had reflected, it would have occurred to him that his informant had been, as they say, "very quick in the uptake." The truth was that less than a week ago Miss Valerie French had recognized Patch and had asked the same girl for the name of his owner. "He's a beauty," said Anthony. "Does she keep him here all the time?" "When she's in London," said the girl. "I expect you've seen her. She's very often down." Anthony nodded. "I think I must have," he said. Then he made much of Patch and handed him over. "See you next week, little Patch. Next Saturday. Only a week from to-day. Good-bye, little fellow." He ruffled the tousled head with a last caress, smiled at the puzzled brown eyes, and turned away.... There was no sweet sorrow about these partings. They were purely abominable.