I dropped my cigar into the ash-tray. "You may stop at that," I answered, unable (that's the queer part of it) to lift my eyes and look him in the face, although I knew very well that he was leaning back in his chair, eyeing me steadily, challenging the verdict. "Yes," said I, slowly turning the cigar-stump around in its ash, "I'm sorry, Jack . . . but I don't want to hear any more." "I knew you would take it so," said Jack quietly, with a sort of sigh. "Well," said I, "how else? Of course I know you'd had a damnable provocation, to start with. And I'm no man to judge you, not having been through the like or the beginnings of it. . . . You were rescued, for here you are. That's enough. But--damn it all!--you left the man!" "--And the dog. While we are about it, don't let us forget the dog," said Jack wearily. "Shall we toss who pays the bill? Here--waiter!" We parted under the porch-cover, in the traffic of Regent Street. I have told you that, in our best of days, Jack and I never shook hands, meeting or parting. It saved awkwardness now. BOOK IV. THE COUNTERCHASE. NIGHT THE TWENTY-FIRST. THE YELLOW DOG. About two months later--to be accurate, it was seven weeks and two days--my flat in Jermyn Street was honoured with a totally unexpected call by Constantia Denistoun. Constantia has a way of committing improprieties with all the _aplomb_ of innocence. She just walked upstairs and walked into the room where Jephson and I were packing gun-cases. "Hallo!" said she. "You seem to be in a mess here." "Please sit down," said I, removing a sporting rifle and bundle of cotton-waste from the best arm-chair. "What is the matter?" she asked, arching her brows as she surveyed the general disorder. "We're packing," said I. "It may surprise you to hear it," said she, taking the seat, "but so I had guessed. What is it? Preparing for the pheasants, or for Quarter Day?" "Neither," I answered. "I'm going to South America, that's all. . . . That will do for the present, Jephson. You may get Miss Denistoun a cup of tea." "Sudden?" she asked, when Jephson had withdrawn. "Well," I admitted, "I booked my passage only two days ago, but I've had the notion in my mind for some time." "Alligators, is it? or climbing, this time? Or just general exploring?" "You may call it exploring, though I may have a shy at the Andes on the way. These fits come upon me at intervals, Constantia, as you know, ever since you determined to be unkind." "Don't be absurd, Roddy," she commanded, tracing out a pattern of the carpet with the point of her sunshade. The tracing took some time. At length she desisted, and looked up, resting her arms on her knees. "Roddy, I'm engaged to be married." A bowl stood on the table, full of late tea-roses sent up from Warwickshire. . . . As the blow fell I turned about, and slowly selected the best bloom.