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”Sorry,’ she said in her thick schoolboy-like voice. ‘I’m sorry for what I said to you about verifying quotations. I didn’t know you well enough and–anyhow, I oughtn’t to have.’

‘But you were quite right about Little Bingo,’ I answered. ‘The spelling ought to have reminded me.’

‘Yes, of course. It’s the spelling,’ she said, and slouched off with the pup sliding after her. Once again my brain began to worry after something that would have meant something if it had been properly spelled. I confided my trouble to Malachi on the way home, but Bettina had bitten him in four places, and he was busy.

Weeks later, Attley came over to see me, and before his car stopped Malachi let me know that Bettina was sitting beside the chauffeur. He greeted her by the scruff of the neck as she hopped down; and I greeted Mrs. Godfrey, Attley, and a big basket.

‘You’ve got to help me,’ said Attley tiredly. We took the basket into the garden, and there staggered out the angular shadow of a sandy-pied, broken-haired terrier, with one imbecile and one delirious ear, and two most hideous squints. Bettina and Malachi, already at grips on the lawn, saw him, let go, and fled in opposite directions.

‘Why have you brought that fetid hound here?’ I demanded.

‘Harvey? For you to take care of,’ said Attley. ‘He’s had distemper, but I‘m going abroad.’

‘Take him with you. I won’t have him. He’s mentally afflicted.’

‘Look here,’ Attley almost shouted, ‘do I strike you as a fool?’

‘Always,’ said I.

‘Well, then, if you say so, and Ella says so, that proves I ought to go abroad.’

‘Will’s wrong, quite wrong,’ Mrs. Godfrey interrupted; ‘but you must take the pup.’

‘My dear boy, my dear boy, don’t you ever give anything to a woman,’ Attley snorted.

Bit by bit I got the story out of them in the quiet garden (never a sign from Bettina and Malachi), while Harvey stared me out of countenance, first with one cuttlefish eye and then with the other.

It appeared that, a month after Miss Sichliffe took him, the dog Harvey developed distemper. Miss Sichliffe had nursed him herself for some time; then she carried him in her arms the two miles to Mittleham, and wept–actually wept–at Attley’s feet, saying that Harvey was all she had or expected to have in this world, and Attley must cure him. Attley, being by wealth, position, and temperament guardian to all lame dogs, had put everything aside for this unsavoury job, and, he asserted, Miss Sichliffe had virtually lived with him ever since.

‘She went home at night, of course,’ he exploded, ‘but the rest of the time she simply infested the premises. Goodness knows, I’m not particular, but it was a scandal. Even the servants!… Three and four times a day, and notes in between, to know how the beast was. Hang it all, don’t laugh! And wanting to send me flowers and goldfish. Do I look as if I wanted goldfish? Can’t you two stop for a minute?’ (Mrs. Godfrey and I were clinging to each other for support.) ‘And it isn’t as if I was–was so alluring a personality, is it?’

Attley commands more trust, goodwill, and affection than most men, for he is that rare angel, an absolutely unselfish bachelor, content to be run by contending syndicates of zealous friends. His situation seemed desperate, and I told him so.

‘Instant flight is your only remedy,’ was my verdict. I’ll take care of both your cars while you’re away, and you can send me over all the greenhouse fruit.’

‘But why should I be chased out of my house by a she-dromedary?’ he wailed.

‘Oh, stop! Stop!’ Mrs. Godfrey sobbed. ‘You’re both wrong. I admit you’re right, but I know you’re wrong.’

‘Three and four times a day,’ said Attley, with an awful countenance. ‘I’m not a vain man, but–look here, Ella, I’m not sensitive, I hope, but if you persist in making a joke of it–‘