At this moment the servant said that dinner was ready. We continued our conversation in the dining-room, which was hung with sacred pictures, gentle-eyed Madonnas—one by Luini—Saints, an Agony in the Garden by an unnamed painter, the little children coming to Christ, the Magi offering their gifts, watched by calm-eyed beasts in a dim stable. “Yes,” I said. “Deeming is very decisive.” “To me there’s something very strange in the thought that he is a healer.” “Why?” “Well—do you mind my speaking frankly about a friend of yours?” “Not a bit.” “I shall startle you, perhaps. You know one reads sometimes in the papers of people who are afflicted with what is called the mania to persecute. There was a trial of a woman not long ago—a Mrs. Denby.” “I know. But⸺” “And there have been various instances in distant Colonial possessions of France and Belgium—and, perhaps, of other countries—various instances of men placed practically in the position of tyrants who have indulged in orgies of persecution of natives.” “But, my dear Vernon, you surely don’t mean that you think Deeming has the bloodlust because he believes good can come of vivisection. Upon my word, if you don’t take care, I shall begin to think you really are a crank.” “It isn’t that. It isn’t what the man says. I can quite understand that as a doctor he wishes by every means to advance the spread of medical knowledge. No, no; it’s the man himself. Do you know him well?” “I have seen a good deal of him in London. Not a great deal, because he’s such a busy man. But I have often been with him.” “Often in his house?” “More often at his club, and in my own house and at restaurants. Being a bachelor, when he entertains he nearly always does so at Claridge’s, or the Savoy, or one of those places. But, of course, I have been in his house.” “Have you ever seen his dog, that black spaniel he spoke of?” “No, I can’t remember that I have.” For a moment Vernon spoke of a certain dish that had just been brought in, a special _plat_ for which his cook was famous. Then he said— “That dog I spoke of the other night—the dog I lost—you remember?” “Yes.” “She was a black spaniel.” His tone in saying this was so peculiar that I was misled and exclaimed: “But you told us the poor beast was killed in that house—in Lilac Hall!” “So she was.” “I thought—really, by the way you spoke, you led me to imagine that perhaps you fancied Deeming had got possession of your dog.” “Oh, dear no! Whisper is dead, years ago. I seldom speak of her.” “I never heard you mention her till the other night.” “The other night I showed you a side of me that you had never suspected the existence of, didn’t I?” “You did indeed.” “Well, having broken through my reserve, I feel that I don’t mind being frank with you.” His eyes began to shine as they had shone in the restaurant when he spoke of man’s cruelty to animals.