“That what we do is eventually done to us in another life; for instance, that if a man has been brutal to an animal, at death his soul passes into a similar animal, which endures the fate he once meted out when he was a man.” “Good heavens!” exclaimed Deeming. “You surely can’t believe such unscientific nonsense!” “I did not say I believed it, but I should not be sorry to.” He sipped his champagne. Then, more lightly, he said— “I told you I was a bit of a crank. I am even hand-in-glove with Arthur Gernham.” At the mention of this name, Deeming moved, and I saw his eyes flash. “The prominent anti-vivisectionist?” he said. “Yes.” “And you share his views?” “To a considerable extent, though I don’t always approve of what he writes or of what he says.” “I’m glad of that. We doctors, you know, ab—well, we don’t love that eager gentleman. If he had his way humanity would undoubtedly suffer far more in the future than it will. For I don’t think his sentimentalities and wild exaggerations will ever gain over our legislators to his views.” “Perhaps not. But I sometimes wonder whether anyone has the right, whether anyone was intended by the Creator to have the right, to avoid suffering at the cost of inflicting it, even to save life by causing death. However, the vivisection question is hardly a pleasant one for the dinner-table, eh!” There was a moment’s silence. Then Deeming said— “Of course you never shoot or hunt?” “Never.” “I do,” I said. “But I am not such a contemptible hypocrite as to deny that cruelty, and often very gross cruelty, enters into sport.” Deeming slightly smiled. “Do you keep any pets?” said Vernon to him, rather sharply. “Yes. I have a dog at home, a black spaniel; and you?” “No. For years I have kept no animals. I shall never keep one again.” “That surprises me. You would give them a remarkably good time, I feel sure.” “I have a reason.” “May I ask what it is?” “Certainly. I once had a dog that I—that I cared about. She was out with me one day in London and disappeared. I made every possible inquiry, offered a reward, went to the Dogs’ Home, but I couldn’t find her. Eventually, through an odd chain of circumstances that I needn’t trouble you with, I learnt her fate.” “What was it?” I asked. “She had been picked up by a dog-stealer and sold to the proprietor of an establishment called ‘Lilac Hall,’ near London.” “An establishment?” I said, struck by the tone in which he had uttered the words. “Where a large number—stock, I’ll say—of animals of all kinds, horses, cats, rabbits, guinea-pigs, dogs, was kept on hand for scientific purposes. My companion and friend died under the knife of the vivisector. What do you think of the food here? They’ve got a new _chef_.” “I—I—oh, it’s very good, I think; it’s excellent.”