Something in his voice, as he said the last words, turned me cold. I felt quite sure, for the first time, that hatred was blazing in his heart, hatred against Deeming. Of course, I could not speak of my new certainty now that I was confronted by his reserve, but a sudden idea sprang up within my brain. There was one way, and one way only, of brushing aside this spider’s-web of suspicion and intrigue, which was being woven day by day, and it was this. If I could only ascertain for myself, and prove to Vernon, that the mysterious black spaniel was happy as had been his “Whisper,” well-cared-for, well-loved, these two men who were at secret enmity would doubtless at once be reconciled, and I should no longer have to endure the vexation of being on uneasy terms with both. Vernon knew me well enough to know that if I made a solemn statement he could absolutely rely upon it. Deeming disliked him, as men generally and naturally dislike those who, without good reason, are suspicious of them. But though he was now cold and distant with me, I could not think that he disliked me. Where Vernon would probably fail, I might surely succeed. It was such a simple matter after all. I merely wanted to see a dog with his master, Deeming with his black spaniel. That could surely be managed without much difficulty and before many days had elapsed. I said nothing to Vernon of my project. Indeed, I resolved not to seek a meeting with him until I had accomplished it. Our present intercourse was too restrained to be particularly agreeable. The London season was setting in and there was much to be got through. I could easily avoid Vernon for a few days and, when I had the news I wanted, go to him and put an end to a condition of things at once painful and—so I called it resolutely to myself—ridiculous. Having made up my mind, I had only to act. I must see Deeming’s black spaniel, and see him with his master. I began my campaign by calling one evening at Deeming’s house at an hour when I thought it probable that the last sufferer would have gone. But I had miscalculated his popularity as a doctor. His extremely thin and sympathetic butler informed me in a whispering voice that the waiting-room was still thronged with anxious patients. “When is he free?” I inquired. “He is engaged all day, Sir, at this season of the year.” “Does he never get out for a breath of air?” “Oh, yes, Sir, when he drives out to the hospital.” “And on a Sunday, I suppose. No doubt”—I tried to make my voice very natural and careless at this point—“he goes out on a Sunday if it’s fine, to give the dog a run, eh?” It seemed to me that the butler’s pale face slightly twisted as I said the last words, as if he made a sudden effort not to show in it some expression which would have betrayed a feeling; as if he suppressed, perhaps, a smile, or concealed a knowing leer. “The Doctor’s generally shut up on a Sunday, writing, Sir,” he murmured, “or pursuing his researches.” “Oh!”