“I can’t stomach a friend who isn’t perfectly straight with me,” he said; “and what’s more, I’m bound to tell him so. I can’t keep anything in. Whatever I feel I have to out with it. That’s my nature. It’s got me into plenty of trouble, and it will get me into plenty more. Fights were my lot at Eton, and fights have been my lot, more or less, ever since.” He unbuttoned one of the cuffs of his flannel shirt, pushed the flannel higher up his arm, and went on: “With Kersteven I got on magnificently until to-day.” “Have you had a wordy fight with Vernon to-day, then?” I asked. “I went straight to him this morning and told him I’d met you last night. He asked me how I liked you, and I told him, ‘Very much.’ Then I said, plump out, ‘You’ve been tricky with me, Kersteven.’” “Oh!” I exclaimed. He took no notice of my interruption, and went on— “‘You’ve let me make a fool of myself with you. That’s nothing. One makes a fool of oneself most days one way or another.’ ‘What do you mean?’ he asked. ‘That you’ve allowed me to think that you would never keep a dog or animal of any kind in your house, that you’ve sat here and listened to me trying to persuade you to keep one, while all the time there is—or was—one perhaps within a few feet of me. You’ve let me think what wasn’t true, you’ve made me think what wasn’t true. I don’t know what your reason is, but I know that I hate your action, and that I never thought you were capable of doing such a low thing to a friend.’” “Pretty strong,” I said. “How did he take it?” “That’s the nastiest part of all. He took it lying down.” “Lying down?” “Yes. Merely said the matter of the dog was such a trifle he hadn’t thought it would interest me to know of it, that he wasn’t sure of keeping it for any time, that he’d been so busy with me that—etc., etc. The lamest excuses man ever offered to man. I was disgusted, and showed it. It’s my way to show things—can’t help doing it. ‘Let’s get to work,’ he said, trying to change the subject. ‘No,’ I said. ‘I can’t work with you to-day. That’s certain.’ And I took up my hat and went.” “And you—you didn’t see the dog?” “Oh, dear no. But it wasn’t that I cared about.” “I wish you had seen it. I wish you would see it.” I was speaking almost involuntarily, as if the words were forced from me, words scarcely prompted by any thought in me, words that were uttered for me. “Why?” he asked. “Why? What do you mean?” His face and manner were always alert, but now they had suddenly become intense with a sort of quivering vivacity. “What’s wrong about the dog?” “I don’t know that anything is wrong.” “Know! Do you suspect anything is wrong?” I waited a minute. I was repeating to myself Gernham’s question. “Yes,” I said at last, “I do. But I don’t know why I suspect, and I don’t know what I suspect. That’s the honest truth and vague enough. But I can’t help it.” He looked me straight in the eyes for a full minute, I should think. Then he said—