"A slight operation," Henson said, airily. "I have been speaking too much in public lately and a little something had to be removed. I am much better." The ready lie tripped off his tongue. Chris smiled slightly. "Do you know, you remind me very much of somebody," he went on. "And yet I don't know why, because you are quite different. Lord Littimer tells me you are an American." "The Stars and Stripes," Chris laughed. "I guess our nation is the first on earth. Now, if you happen to know anything about Boston--" "I never was in Boston in my life," Henson replied, hastily. The name seemed to render him uneasy. "Have you been in England very long?" Chris replied that she was enjoying England for the first time. But she was not there to answer questions, her _role_ was to ask them. But she was dealing with a past-master in the art of gleaning information, and Henson was getting on her nerves. She gave a little cry of pleasure as a magnificent specimen of a bloodhound came trotting down the terrace and paused in friendly fashion before her. "What a lovely dog," she exclaimed. "Do you like dogs, Mr. Henson?" She looked up beamingly into his face as she spoke; she saw the heavy features darken and the eyes grow small with anger. "I loathe them, and they loathe me," Henson growled. "Look at him!" He pointed to the dog, who showed his teeth with an angry growl. And yet the great sleek head lay against the girl's knee in perfect confidence. Henson looked on uneasily and backed a little way. The dog marked his every movement. "See how the brute shows his teeth at me," he said. "Please send him away, Miss Lee. I am certain he is getting ready for a spring." Henson's face was white and hot and wet, his lips trembled. He was horribly afraid. Chris patted the silky head and dismissed the dog with a curt command. He went off instantly with a wistful, backward look in his eye. "We are going to be great friends, that doggie and I," Chris said, gaily. "And I don't like you any the better, Mr. Henson, because you don't like dogs and they don't like you. Dogs are far better judges of character than you imagine. Dr. Bell says--" "What Dr. Bell?" Henson demanded, swiftly. Chris had paused just in time: perhaps her successful disguise had made her a trifle reckless. "Dr. Hatherly Bell," she said. "He used to be a famous man before he fell into disgrace over something or another. I heard him lecture on the animal instinct in Boston once, and he said--but as you don't care for dogs it doesn't matter what he said." "Do you happen to know anything about him?" Henson asked. "Very little. I never met him, if that is what you mean. But I heard that he had done something particularly disgraceful. Why do you ask?"