But Prince’s diabolical cunning, that new and alarming feature in the dog’s character, was too much for his master. Prince took care to despatch every crumb and hair, and get rid of all traces of his unlawful proceedings, before he returned sullenly to his master. It is all very well to laugh; but the dog, with all his craft, would have been caught red-handed some day and made a public example of, perishing miserably by a violent death, had not Mr. Jerry Noakes’ own death suddenly dissolved the connection between him and Prince. Mr. Jerry Noakes was removed at a moment’s notice from all his grubbing and grinding, and Prince, after narrowly escaping being forgotten and starved to death in the yard, fell into the hands of Mr. Miles Noakes, Mr. Jerry’s nephew and nearest surviving relation. Mr. Miles was a family man settled in the country, and was called on to sustain the trouble and expense of a journey to London in order to discharge the last duties to Mr. Jerry, and possibly to be rewarded by entering on his inheritance. Those who had known Mr. Jerry said “possibly” advisedly, while they were aware that Mr. Miles was the nearest surviving relation; and the cautious wording of the phrase was vindicated by the sequel. Mr. Jerry had left a will, and bequeathed his gains in two parts—to a more distant relation than Mr. Miles, and who was comparatively rich and in no want of money, and to a charitable institution. It was just after Mr. Miles had been made acquainted with the disposal of the funds that he, still acting in the character of the representative of the dead man, seeing that the favoured kinsman had not put himself about to attend the funeral, looked into the yard and remarked Prince. The dog, faithful to the single principle of duty that was left in him, threatened the intruder as furiously as if Prince himself were not an arrant rogue, or as if he were acting out the adage, “Set a thief to catch a thief.” The dog looked such a miserable object, there was so little to steal, the idea of his revenging himself for being deprived of the succession by pilfering these mouldy coals—if coals can ever be called mouldy—tickled the stranger’s fancy, though this was no laughing occasion, neither was he in any laughing mood. Mr. Miles, while he had stood in the relation of nephew to Mr. Jerry, was nearly as old a man as his uncle, and, as he lounged there in his rusty black, he bore a certain resemblance to his late father’s brother. He appeared crusty, if not grim, but he possessed what Mr. Jerry had certainly been devoid of—an imagination to take in the ludicrousness of the situation; and he was not altogether selfish and inhuman, for even, while smarting under the injury which had been inflicted on him, and as Prince was flying at him as far as his chain would permit, Mr. Miles said to himself, “I must see that beast put out of pain before I go.”