I opened my lips to deny it, but they refused to speak. I was filled with a horror of the imagination, but I was resolved not to succumb to it. I seized the steel chain that was attached to the collar of the spaniel, and untied it from the sideboard. “What are you doing?” said Vernon sharply. “Good-night, Vernon,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm; “I am going to take the spaniel with me.” As I spoke I moved towards the door. The spaniel slunk along beside me, with its belly close to the floor, trying to press itself against my legs. [Illustration: “I WENT OUT INTO THE NIGHT CARRYING IT IN MY ARMS.”] “What!” said Vernon, “to happiness—to affection!” I was close to the door. I had my fingers upon the handle. “That!” he cried with violence. “No! Rather than that, let it end now and here!” He made a rapid movement; the spaniel howled and cowered against the door. I heard the crack of a pistol-shot. I felt the chain leap in my hand as the spaniel sprang upwards and fell on the floor. I bent down, touched him, turned him over. He was dead. Then I faced Vernon. “Murderer!” I said. “Murderer!” “But—he was only a black spaniel!” Vernon said, laying the revolver down on the table. “Murderer!” I repeated. Then I lifted up the corpse of the spaniel, and went out into the night carrying it in my arms. _THE MISSION OF MR. EUSTACE GREYNE_ I Mrs. Eustace Greyne (pronounced Green) wrinkled her forehead—that noble, that startling forehead which had been written about in the newspapers of two hemispheres—laid down her American Squeezer pen, and sighed. It was an autumn day, nipping and melancholy, full of the rustle of dying leaves and the faint sound of muffin bells, and Belgrave Square looked sad even to the great female novelist who had written her way into a mansion there. Fog hung about with the policeman on the pavement. The passing motor cars were like shadows. Their stertorous pantings sounded to Mrs. Greyne’s ears like the asthma of dying monsters. She sighed again, and murmured in a deep contralto voice: “It must be so.” Then she got up, crossed the heavy Persian carpet which had been bought with the proceeds of a short story in her earlier days, and placed her forefinger upon an electric bell. Like lightning a powdered giant came. “Has Mr. Greyne gone out?” “No, ma’am.” “Where is he?” “In his study, ma’am, pasting the last of the cuttings into the new album.” Mrs. Greyne smiled. It was a pretty picture the unconscious six-footer had conjured up. “I am sorry to disturb Mr. Greyne,” she answered, with that gracious, and even curling suavity which won all hearts; “but I wish to see him. Will you ask him to come to me for a moment?” The giant flew, silk-stockinged, to obey the mandate, while Mrs. Greyne sat down on a carved oaken chair of ecclesiastical aspect to await her husband.