My plan was to remove the dog and drive to White Plains. Then, if there was any issue raised as to my need for a rest-cure, it would appear that I had inexplicably ordered my favorite dog chloroformed. That would clinch it with Germaine as nothing else could. She seemed rather subdued as she went upstairs and helped me pack my things in a suitcase. She did not offer to kiss me good-bye as I drove the Packard out of the garage and rolled around the graveled drive toward my road to freedom. First, of course, I stopped at Dr. Rutherford's office. It was early in the morning and he hadn't finished breakfast. The maid admitted me to the reception-room and while waiting for him, I made out a check for fifteen thousand dollars to the order of Jeremiah Rutherford, and marked across the back, "For Professional Services." "Here you are, Jerry," I informed him when he finally appeared. "I would have got it to you sooner except that my lawyer went off the deep end with a girl in Hartford. He should have had the papers ready on Monday and here it is Wednesday." "Thanks," he said briefly. "Are you feeling okay?" he asked. "You look a bit shaky." I laughed. "Set it down to my liver," I told him. "I had a wet night last night and am a little rocky this morning. As a matter of fact, I think I'll run over the The Sanctuary and ask Folsom to put me up for a few days. My nerves are shot to hell." "Good idea," he murmured absently. "I'll go down to the bank and put this in for collection. My Army papers came through yesterday and I'm all set." I climbed into my car and tooled along the roads until, after inquiring at a couple of filling stations, I located Dalrymple's kennels. "I've come for Ponto," I told the vet. Dalrymple seemed rather embarrassed. "Are you sure you need him?" he asked. "He's just served Buglebell III--that's the prize-winning brindle bitch owned by one of the Fortune editors--and I was planning--" "You can cancel your plans," I informed him. "And as for Buglebell's pups, I'll buy the litter. What _were_ your other plans, anyhow?" Dalrymple was quite abashed. "Not exactly anything, Mr. Tompkins, sir," he said. "It was only that--" I nodded majestically. "Once is enough," I said, "and you can be thankful I don't report you to the Kennel Club for bootlegging thoroughbred puppies. Ponto comes with me--now." "Yes, sir, Mr. Tompkins," the vet agreed humbly. Dalrymple was a broken man but Ponto was not a broken dog. However, marriage coming so soon after distemper had curbed his spirit and he slouched into the Packard. As soon as I was out on the main road again, I stepped on the accelerator, heading the car southward in the general direction of White Plains. Ponto sat panting on the seat beside me, but in his weary eye I saw all the Westchester stock-brokers who had ever annoyed me. I also saw Winnie, and Winnie was to die.