My relation with Vernon was now almost exactly similar to his former relation with Deeming, and Gernham was to be the inactive watcher, the waiter on events engineered by others, that I had formerly been. But there was a difference in this new situation which had followed so strangely upon the death of Deeming. Vernon had never been Deeming’s friend. From the first moment when they met the two men had been instinctively hostile to one another. But I was Vernon’s friend. I cared for him. Till now I had believed in him. This fact complicated matters painfully. And yet I did not hesitate, did not feel that in my understanding with Gernham I was being treacherous, disloyal. For the eyes of the black spaniel haunted me, summoned me, seemed to force me to go on, to investigate this mystery. By them I was driven to do as I did. By them I was told that in my friend a new man, a stranger, had arisen, and that in attacking this stranger—if attack were necessary—I should not be false to my friendship with the man who had lived in Rome, the quiet lover of pictures, the gentle, idle, cultivated Vernon of the Trinità dei Monti. Vernon was generally at home after six in the evening. I resolved to seek him at that hour on the same day, and carried my resolution into effect. Cragg opened the door to me. “Mr. Kersteven at home, Cragg?” “Yes, Sir.” “Can I see him?” “If you’ll wait a moment, Sir, I’ll ask.” He paused, then added in explanation— “I don’t think Mr. Kersteven is very well to-day, Sir. Perhaps he may not wish to be disturbed, even by you. You’ll excuse me, Sir.” “Of course. Go and see. I’ll stay here.” “Pray take a seat, Sir.” He placed a chair for me in the little hall, and went discreetly away up the stairs. I sat down and waited.