“No, no!” I cried, piteously; “quite the reverse. Let’s all go indoors now; it’s getting so cold!” “See, there _is_ a shrub or something uprooted,” said the colonel, still coming nearer that fatal hole. “Why, hullo, look there! What’s that?” Lilian, who was by his side, gave a slight scream. “Uncle,” she cried, “it looks like--like _Bingo_!” The colonel turned suddenly upon me. “Do you hear?” he demanded, in a choked voice. “You hear what she says? Can’t you speak out? Is that our Bingo?” I gave it up at last; I only longed to be allowed to crawl away under something! “Yes,” I said in a dull whisper, as I sat down heavily on a garden seat, “yes . . . that’s Bingo . . . misfortune . . . shoot him . . . quite an accident!” There was a terrible explosion after that; they saw at last how I had deceived them, and put the very worst construction upon everything. Even now I writhe impotently at times, and my cheeks smart and tingle with humiliation, as I recall that scene--the colonel’s very plain speaking, Lilian’s passionate reproaches and contempt, and her aunt’s speechless prostration of disappointment. I made no attempt to defend myself; I was not, perhaps, the complete villain they deemed me, but I felt dully that no doubt it all served me perfectly right. Still I do not think I am under any obligation to put their remarks down in black and white here. Travers had vanished at the first opportunity--whether out of delicacy, or the fear of breaking out into unseasonable mirth, I cannot say; and shortly afterward the others came to where I sat silent with bowed head, and bade me a stern and final farewell. And then, as the last gleam of Lilian’s white dress vanished down the garden path, I laid my head down on the table among the coffee-cups, and cried like a beaten child. I got leave as soon as I could, and went abroad. The morning after my return I noticed, while shaving, that there was a small square marble tablet placed against the wall of the colonel’s garden. I got my opera-glass and read--and pleasant reading it was--the following inscription: IN AFFECTIONATE MEMORY OF B I N G O, SECRETLY AND CRUELLY PUT TO DEATH, IN COLD BLOOD, BY A NEIGHBOUR AND FRIEND. JUNE, 1881. If this explanation of mine ever reaches my neighbours’ eyes, I humbly hope they will have the humanity either to take away or tone down that tablet. They cannot conceive what I suffer when curious visitors insist, as they do every day, on spelling out the words from our windows, and asking me countless questions about them! Sometimes I meet the Curries about the village, and as they pass me with averted heads I feel myself growing crimson. Travers is almost always with Lilian now. He has given her a dog,--a fox-terrier,--and they take ostentatiously elaborate precautions to keep it out of my garden. I should like to assure them here that they need not be under any alarm. I have shot one dog. THAT BRUTE SIMMONS, By Arthur Morrison