During the rest of the evening Deeming and his dog were not mentioned. Vernon resumed, almost like a garment, his old self, the self I had always known, cultured, gentle in manner, full of interest in every topic that lent itself to quiet discussion and amiable debate. The evil spirit—I thought of it as almost that—had departed out of him, and when I got up to go I could hardly believe that I had ever been the recipient of his vehemence, or seen his eyes blazing with the light of scarcely controlled passion. He came with me to the hall-door and let me out into the quiet night. “Good-bye,” he said, pressing my hand. “Good-bye,” I answered. I hesitated. Then I said— “Doesn’t this calm of the night embracing Rome make you—make you feel that in your suspicions of Deeming you have been unreasonable; that, after all, it is unlikely he should be what you have fancied him to be?” In an instant all the calmness, all the gentleness went out of his face. But he only answered— “When you get back to the hotel talk to him about his black spaniel, and see how he takes it. Good-night.” Before I could say anything more he had drawn back into his house and shut the door quickly behind him. III As I walked back to the Grand Hotel I thought over Vernon’s last words and the way in which he had said them. Should I obey his injunctions? I confessed to myself with reluctance that my conversation with him that evening had made me suspicious of a friend. Yet I had Vernon’s own word for it that he was a crank on the subject of animals, and my recent experience of him almost forced me to the conclusion that in his nature, usually so gentle, there must be an odd strain of fanaticism. My mind was troubled, and I reached the hotel without coming to a decision as to whether I would speak to Deeming about his dog or not. As I came into the outer hall I saw him through the glass door sitting alone in the winter garden, smoking, with a paper, which he was not reading, lying on his knee. He did not see me, and, for a moment, I watched him with a furtive curiosity of which I was secretly half-ashamed. Perhaps stirred by my gaze, he suddenly looked up, caught sight of me, smiled, and made a slight gesture, as if beckoning me to come in and have a talk. I took off my overcoat and joined him. “I’ve just come from Vernon,” I said, sitting down and lighting a cigar. [Illustration: “AS I WALKED BACK, I THOUGHT OVER VERNON’S LAST WORDS.”] “Ah!” said Deeming. He uncrossed his legs, crossed them again, and added: “He’s got a beautiful house.” “Yes, one of the most beautiful in Rome. He wants you to dine with him one night, I believe. Probably he’ll ask you in a day or two.” “Very good of him.” His voice was scarcely cordial. “He’s a curious fellow,” he continued. “Easy in his manner, but difficult really to know, I fancy.” “If you dine with him you may find him less reserved,” I said, rather perfunctorily.