At that moment I wanted to force things. The entrance of the dog had deepened my sense of moving in mystery until it became absolutely intolerable. A hard determination took hold upon me to compel Vernon to explain—what? I did not know. But that there was something to be explained, some strange undercurrent of motive, of desire, of intention, deep and furtive, I seemed to be aware. “What do you mean?” Vernon said. “Surely you know my feeling for animals.” “I do.” “Then what do you mean?” “I mean that as regards this animal, this spaniel, I don’t—I can’t trust you,” I said. “I don’t know why it is, I don’t understand, I don’t understand anything. But I don’t trust you, Vernon. That’s the truth. It’s best to speak it.” To my great surprise, he did not indignantly resent my words, nor did he look guilty or ashamed. Indeed, it seemed to me that an expression of something like relief flitted across his face as I finished speaking. “I knew it,” he said. “I knew quite well you didn’t trust me. And Gernham? Have you spoken to him of your mistrust?” “He knows I don’t understand why you bought this dog, and what you’re going to do to him. He knows I’m—I’m afraid of—of what you may be going to do.” He was silent, and again drew his hand across the spaniel’s soft black coat. The dog struggled. He struck his open hand down on the dog’s head, and the dog lay still, cowering upon his master’s knees. “Gernham doesn’t enter into this,” he said inflexibly. “And I?” “You! That’s different. You introduced me to Deeming.” Again the dog began to struggle upon his knees, but this time more violently. Vernon lifted his hand again. “Put him down!” I said. “For God’s sake put him down! Don’t strike him!” “Very well.” He dropped the spaniel to the floor. The spaniel ran under the dining-table. I sprang up from my seat. “Don’t, don’t!” I began. “It’s all right,” said Vernon. “I’ve got him by the chain.” He dragged the spaniel out, and fastened him up to the sideboard at the far end of the room. “Why, you’re trembling!” he said, as he came back to his chair. “Am I?” I said, ashamed. “I’m not a coward, but—but this dog—I can’t stand him near me, close to me, when I can’t see what he’s doing.” I cleared my throat, went to the window, threw it open, leaned out, and spat. Leaving the window open, I came back to the table. The spaniel was now lying down on the floor, close to the sideboard. “What is it?” I said, almost fiercely, I think, in my inexplicable physical distress, “what is it that’s wrong with the dog? What is it that’s unnatural about him?” “You have no idea?” said Vernon. “Not the slightest. The poor beast seems harmless enough, though he’s terrified. One can see that.” “Exactly. He is terrified.” “And the strange thing is that his terror terrifies me.” “Now you’re getting to it,” Vernon said. “Why should the spaniel be terrified?” “Why? How should I know? Isn’t that for you to say?”