“I hope he won’t,” said the suffragette. “I caught John using Scottie as a target yesterday. He scored two bull’s-eyes before I got there.” “I can’t think what to do with him. There is nobody but Mr. Wise, and he already has a fierce bulldog. Have you any ideas?” “Yes, one. I have a sort of friend on the Island. If I left Scottie with him, he would act as a brake in the pursuit, because of the difficulties of quarantine.” “I don’t quite follow your meaning,” said Miss Brown, not unnaturally. “I didn’t know you had a gentleman friend on the Island.” “I haven’t. But I’m sure he will be kind to Scottie.” Very late that night, when Courtesy, Mrs. Rust, the gardener, and an unknown young man picked up at the club by the gardener, were playing Bridge in the verandah, a very young boy with a very fat dog appeared, asking for Mr. Gardener. The boy was too well educated to be afraid of duppies. The solid Scottie, too, was felt to be a sound defence against the supernatural. “What is this?” asked the gardener, who had assumed the melancholy pose of the Rejected One, and had unconsciously acquired a sad sweet smile to correspond. Even on his death-bed the gardener will pose as a dying man. The young boy put a note into his hand, and dragged Scottie from the shadow where he had modestly seated himself. “By Jove,” said the unknown young man, who happened to be Mr. Wise. “It’s Scottie, the Park View dog.” The gardener literally burst the envelope open. The enclosure said: “Dear Gardener—Will you please keep Scottie until I ask you for him again.—Your fairly sincere suffragette.” The note went round the Bridge Table. “I have always wondered,” said Mrs. Rust, “whether politics were really good for women. Now I am sure that they have an unhinging tendency. What does it mean?” “It means that they are going on an expedition,” said Courtesy. “They want the dog looked after for a day or two.” “Why, but Park View is a regular palace in Greyville,” said Mr. Wise. “There are three servants in it, all competent to look after Scottie for a day or two.” “I shall have to do what she says,” said the gardener. “The suffragette’s only fault is that she leaves almost too much to the imagination.” The boy had vanished. “Better go round and ask for an explanation,” said Courtesy. “He must play out these doubled lilies,” said Mrs. Rust. “It must be nearly twelve,” said Mr. Wise. “The cocks have been crowing for an hour.” The Island cock proclaims the night rather than the day. Not even a cock can feel much enthusiasm for such a tyrant as the Trinity Island sun. “I can’t go now,” said the gardener.