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“Zero did know,” said Jane. She was Mr Murray’s only daughter, and without being wildly beautiful, was an extremely pleasing and friendly young woman to look at. At present she was feeding Zero with thin bread-and-butter. Zero had been told, even by Jane herself, that this form of diet was bad for his figure, but he accepted it with resignation–rather an enthusiastic kind of resignation.

“What makes you say that Zero knew?” her father asked, with indulgent superiority.

“Because I know he knew,” said Jane firmly and finally.

“And then,” said Mr Murray, “women tell us they ought to have the vote.”

“Miss Murray,” said Richard firmly, “that dog is not to be fed any more, please.”

“Last piece,” said Jane. “And he’s promised to do Swedish exercises.”

Richard was inclined to agree with Mr Murray. The coincidence was again remarkable; it might even be called very extraordinary. And, given a choice of two things, Richard preferred to believe the easier. Why, fond though he was of Zero, he had to admit that the dog was not even clever.

He had tried to teach Zero to find a hidden biscuit, but though he had hidden the biscuit in all manner of places he had never yet selected a place that Zero had been able to discover. He was just a dear old fool of a bulldog, and it was absurd to suppose that he was a miracle.

But Jane Murray remained firm in her belief, and even condescended to be serious about it.

“Look here,” she said, “if you put your horse at a jump, and you’re feeling a bit shy of it yourself, do you mean to say the horse doesn’t know?”

“Of course he knows. But he only knows it by the way you ride him.”

“Well, I’ve had it happen to me. All I can say is that I wasn’t conscious of riding any differently. It was my first season in Ireland, and I wasn’t used to the walls. I said to myself, ‘It’s got to be.’ I did really mean to get over. But the horse knew the funk in my head and refused. However, I’ll give you another point. How do you explain the homing instinct of animals?”

“I’ve never thought about it. I suppose when a pigeon gets up high it can see no end of a distance.”

“That won’t do. Dogs and cats have the same instinct–especially cats. For that matter, crabs have been taken from the sea and returned to it again at a point eighty miles away, and have found their way back. It’s not done by sight, scent, or hearing. It must be done by some special sense which they have got and we have not.”

“It sounds plausible.”

“It’s the only possible explanation. And when once we’ve admitted that animals have a special sense which we have not, I don’t quite see how we are to say what the limitations of that sense are. It is not really a bit more wonderful that Zero should have the sense of impending danger than that a crab, eighty miles from home, should be able to find its way back.”

“Well, you may be right. I wish now that I’d asked that chap Smith a bit more about the dog.”

A few days later one of the partners in Richard’s business announced his intention of getting married. He was a junior partner, two years younger than Richard.

“Well, Bill,” said Richard, after he had offered his congratulations, “what shall I give you for a wedding-present?”

“Give us that dog of yours.”

“Never. Try again.”

“Oh, I was only rotting. But, seriously, I’d as soon have a dog as anything. Not a bulldog–they’re too ugly.”

“It’s a good, honest kind of ugliness. What breed then?”

“Gwen’s keen on black poodles.”

That settled it. Richard hunted up Smith’s card. He had always meant to do some business with the man if he got an opportunity, and here was the opportunity. On the following day he journeyed to Wandsworth and found Smith. Smith looked less spruce and prosperous than before. He did not actually declare that the performing dog had had his day, but he admitted that business was not what it had been.