“I don’t mind admitting,” said Strudwarden, “that I’ve dwelt more than once lately on the possibility of some fatal accident putting an end to Louis’s existence.  It’s not very easy, though, to arrange a fatality for a creature that spends most of its time in a muff or asleep in a toy kennel.  I don’t think poison would be any good; it’s obviously horribly over-fed, for I’ve seen Lena offer it dainties at table sometimes, but it never seems to eat them.”

“Lena will be away at church on Wednesday morning,” said Elsie Strudwarden reflectively; “she can’t take Louis with her there, and she is going on to the Dellings for lunch.  That will give you several hours in which to carry out your purpose.  The maid will be flirting with the chauffeur most of the time, and, anyhow, I can manage to keep her out of the way on some pretext or other.”

“That leaves the field clear,” said Strudwarden, “but unfortunately my brain is equally a blank as far as any lethal project is concerned.  The little beast is so monstrously inactive; I can’t pretend that it leapt into the bath and drowned itself, or that it took on the butcher’s mastiff in unequal combat and got chewed up.  In what possible guise could death come to a confirmed basket-dweller?  It would be too suspicious if we invented a Suffragette raid and pretended that they invaded Lena’s boudoir and threw a brick at him.  We should have to do a lot of other damage as well, which would be rather a nuisance, and the servants would think it odd that they had seen nothing of the invaders.”

“I have an idea,” said Elsie; “get a box with an air-tight lid, and bore a small hole in it, just big enough to let in an indiarubber tube.  Pop Louis, kennel and all, into the box, shut it down, and put the other end of the tube over the gas-bracket.  There you have a perfect lethal chamber.  You can stand the kennel at the open window afterwards, to get rid of the smell of gas, and all that Lena will find when she comes home late in the afternoon will be a placidly defunct Louis.”

“Novels have been written about women like you,” said Strudwarden; “you have a perfectly criminal mind.  Let’s come and look for a box.”

Two mornings later the conspirators stood gazing guiltily at a stout square box, connected with the gas-bracket by a length of indiarubber tubing.

“Not a sound,” said Elsie; “he never stirred; it must have been quite painless.  All the same I feel rather horrid now it’s done.”

“The ghastly part has to come,” said Strudwarden, turning off the gas.  “We’ll lift the lid slowly, and let the gas out by degrees.  Swing the door to and fro to send a draught through the room.”

Some minutes later, when the fumes had rushed off, he stooped down and lifted out the little kennel with its grim burden.  Elsie gave an exclamation of terror.  Louis sat at the door of his dwelling, head erect and ears pricked, as coldly and defiantly inert as when they had put him into his execution chamber.  Strudwarden dropped the kennel with a jerk, and stared for a long moment at the miracle-dog; then he went into a peal of chattering laughter.