This knowledge was, of course, consoling to the bereaved mistress; but, beside her grief at the loss of her tiny pet, the consolation was insufficient to balance her distress. She laid her head on her husband's shoulder and wept unrestrainedly, to the distrustful amazement of a cow which lifted its head above the hedge to stare at this singular grouping. Fortunately for the cow's peace of mind Diogenes was by now thoroughly subdued, having gathered from the unusual noises disturbing the tranquillity of the day that this game, like another game he had played with Mr Musgrave's cat, promised a less agreeable ending than he had foreseen. He recalled that on that occasion he had been beaten; so he lay down docilely beside the motor and feigned slumber, in the hope that when the fuss was over the cause of it would be forgotten. But Diogenes' fate was even then being sealed on the other side of the hedge. "Don't cry, Ruby," Mr Chadwick said. "It won't bring the little beggar to life, you know; and you'll make yourself sick. I'll get you another pet, dear." This promise, though well meaning, was mistaken. In the first shock of her grief Mrs Chadwick recoiled from the suggestion. "I couldn't have another pet," she wailed. "I loved him so. I couldn't bear another dog in his place. I d-don't want to see a dog again." "All right," he said. "But buck up, Ruby. Come and get into the car, and I'll drive you home." "I couldn't endure to have that brute in with me," she sobbed angrily. "No, of course not. We'll leave the beast behind. You shan't be worried with the sight of him again. I'll shoot him." He made the promise glibly, in the hope that this threat would rouse her. It roused her effectually, but not in the way in which he had intended. She looked up with a gleam of vindictive satisfaction in her eyes, showing through her tears. "Oh, do!" she said. "Shoot him to-day. I couldn't see him about after this." "All right," he acquiesced, none too heartily. Diogenes was a valuable dog, and had, moreover, a winning way with him towards the people whom he liked, and Will Chadwick was certainly one of these. Mr Chadwick could no more have shot the dog with his own hand than he could have shot a child. "I'll see to it," he said. The first intimation Diogenes had that it was expected of him that he should walk home was when the car started and left him, mute and bewildered and bespattered with mud, in the road gazing after it. No word had been vouchsafed him, no look. From the silence and the absence of interest in himself he had been deluded into supposing that he was not held responsible for the evil that had been done; but with the disappearance of the car vague doubts disturbed him, and he started in a sour, halfhearted way to follow the car and face his destiny. Even had his intelligence been equal to grasping what that destiny was, so great is the force of habit that he would have returned inevitably to meet it.