Perhaps it was this lack in him that made me now think of him with a faint dislike, even a faint disgust, such as the healthy-minded feel when brought into contact with anything unnatural. I broke the silence first. “I did not know you were a changeable man,” I said. “You mean that I have changed my mind about keeping a dog.” “Yes, and with such extraordinary suddenness.” “I suppose it does seem odd,” he remarked. “But who knows what he will do?” “But—what was your reason?” He looked at me, very strangely, I thought. “A sudden impulse,” he answered. “A memory, perhaps, moved me.” “The memory of Whisper?” “Of Whisper—of course.” His voice seemed to me just then as strange as his face. Perhaps seeing that I still wondered, he added— “That spaniel appeared to be nervous, terrified. Perhaps that man is cruel to it.” “Oh, but⸺” I began, and stopped. “What is it?” “You didn’t think—it seemed to me that it was you who inspired the dog with fear.” “I!” He laughed. “My dear fellow, a dog-lover like myself cannot inspire a dog with fear. You must be mistaken. Animals always know who loves them.” “Yes. It’s very strange,” I murmured. “What is strange?” he asked, in rather a hard voice. “Oh, I don’t know—nothing,” I answered evasively. “Here we are at the gate.” “Yes. Well, you are coming to see me?” “Of course. You are still in that house?” “Oh, yes. It suits me. When will you come?” “Whenever you like.” He stood for a moment, making patterns with his stick on the pavement and looking down. Then he glanced up at me. “Come and have a cup of tea this afternoon at half-past five, will you?” he said. I immediately thought of the man with the earrings and the fur cap. Then I was to see the transfer of the black spaniel. “I’ll come,” I answered. “Right!” Vernon nodded and walked away slowly in the direction of Hamilton Place. VII