"Well, then, miss, Jane followed Sir Daniel when he went away last night. The groom--Thomas--saw her. This morning he found her with her jaws all over blood, footsore and weary, as though she had come a long way. And she's been stabbed in the side with a penknife, miss, as the wounds--three of them--are so small." "Well? Well?" asked Clarice, impatiently, while Mrs. Rebson stopped for sheer want of breath. "What has this to do with Sir Daniel?" "What's it got to do with him?" screeched the housekeeper, sitting down. "Why, miss, news has just come by a couple of labourers that the body of Sir Daniel has been found on Barnes Common, fifteen miles away, with his throat tore out, and the poor man as dead as a herring. It is thought that the dog did it, since she hated him, and the police are coming in an hour to make enquiries." "It's impossible," said Clarice, hardly able to believe that Jane had thus revenged herself on her enemy. "Sir Daniel went up to London by the train." "No, miss, he didn't, begging your pardon. Mrs. Dumps saw him at the gate hesitating, and he really did walk towards the High Street, on his way to the station, may be. But then he changed his mind and went down the lane. She saw him pass, and Jane following him as good as gold. No doubt he walked on to Barnes Common, and there Jane killed him. Oh, ain't it dreadful?" cried Mrs. Rebson, again wringing her wrinkled hands. "The Domestic Prophet never said anything like that." Clarice did not reply. She wondered why Jerce had walked. He must have seen the dog, who hated him, follow. But, perhaps, because Jane limped--the doctor's own work--he did not think that she was dangerous. And it might be that Jerce intended to kill himself in the open instead of in his Harley Street house. But, be this as it may, Jerce was dead, and Jane had killed him. No doubt she had followed persistently all that long way, and, having been left behind, Jerce had sat down to rest. Clarice could picture the grim yellow-eyed dog stealing up in the dark night to the unsuspecting man, seated on some dripping bench on the Common. She could picture the silent spring, the closing of those long, white teeth on Jerce's fat throat. And then the end, with the dead body lying on the soaking ground, and the dog trailing home, weary but satisfied, with blood-stained jaws. Truly, Jerce had not escaped punishment after all, and the gods had brought home his crime to him in a terrible way.