At a man’s dinner, given by a famous throat-specialist renowned not only as a surgeon but as a host, I found myself sitting opposite to a very remarkable-looking man of about forty years of age. I had not been introduced to him, and had no idea who he was, but he at once attracted my attention by his air of fiery vitality and his unconventional attire. Instead of the ordinary evening dress, he wore a pair of black trousers, a loose silk shirt with a turned-down collar and very small black tie, and a double-breasted smoking-coat which concealed his waistcoat, if he had one. His powerful, sinewy wrists were unfettered by cuffs, and his powerful throat was free from the stiff linen ramparts over which the average Englishman faces the world in the evening. He was evidently a man who hated restraint. His face was pale, of the hatchet type, with a long hooked nose, the bridge of which was unusually marked; a large mouth, unsmiling but not unkind; a narrow, very high forehead, and gleaming hazel eyes. His head was sparsely covered with odd tufts of light-brown hair. During dinner Gernham talked a great deal in a rasping voice. His conversation was interesting, for he was not only intelligent, but obviously an enthusiast, and one who was entirely fearless of the opinion of others. I wondered much who he was, and as we were getting up from the table I found an opportunity to ask my host. “Arthur Gernham,” he said. “Very down on us doctors, but an interesting fellow. In another age he’d have courted persecution for the faith that is in him. Let me introduce you.” And he did so. Gernham shook me warmly by the hand. “My dear colleague Kersteven has often spoken of you,” he said. “You sympathise with our efforts, don’t you?” He jerked his head upwards and looked at me keenly. I said something—I’ve forgotten what—and he continued abruptly— “Come along. Let’s have a good talk. Have a cigar.” He gave me a very large one, flung himself down in an armchair, and talked enthusiastically of Vernon. “I’ve been almost living in his house this last week,” he said. “We’re preparing a fresh campaign on behalf of the blessed beasts, our brothers. We’ve got together some statistics that’ll startle the comfortable elbow-chair Englishmen, I can tell you. I’ll never rest till I’ve roused the country to the horrors that are being perpetrated every day, every hour, every minute, upon the defenceless animals God has committed to us to be good to. And Vernon—what a splendid chap he is! What a colleague! All pity! The man’s made of pity, made of tenderness. Ah, but you know that!” “Yes!” I said. I thought of the black spaniel. Here was an opportunity to find out how Vernon and his pet were getting on together. “You’ve been in the house with Vernon a great deal lately?” I began. “Every day and all day,” he said, “this last week.” “How’s that new pet of his?” I asked. “Reconciled and happy in his new home?” “Pet?” said Gernham. “Yes, the dog.”