Lo, William was now ready to go to his party!  Moist, wilted, smelling indeed strangely, he was ready.

But when he reached the foot of the stairs he discovered that there was one thing more to be done.  Indignation seized him, and also a creeping fear chilled his spine, as he beheld a lurking shape upon the porch, stealthily moving toward the open door.  It was the lowly Clematis, dog unto Genesis.

William instantly divined the purpose of Clematis.  It was debatable whether Clematis had remained upon the premises after the departure of Genesis, or had lately returned thither upon some errand of his own, but one thing was certain, and the manner of Clematis—­his attitude, his every look, his every gesture—­made it as clear as day.  Clematis had discovered, by one means or another, the presence of Flopit in the house, and had determined to see him personally.

Clematis wore his most misleading expression; a stranger would have thought him shy and easily turned from his purpose—­but William was not deceived.  He knew that if Clematis meant to see Flopit, a strong will, a ready brain, and stern action were needed to thwart him; but at all costs that meeting must be prevented.  Things had been awful enough, without that!

He was well aware that Clematis could not be driven away, except temporarily, for nothing was further fixed upon Clematis than his habit of retiring under pressure, only to return and return again.  True, the door could have been shut in the intruder’s face, but he would have sought other entrance with possible success, or, failing that, would have awaited in the front yard the dispersal of the guests and Flopit’s consequent emerging.  This was a contretemps not to be endured.

The door of the living-room was closed, muffling festal noises and permitting safe passage through the hall.  William cast a hunted look over his shoulder; then he approached Clematis.

“Good ole doggie,” he said, huskily.  “Hyuh, Clem!  Hyuh, Clem!”

Clematis moved sidelong, retreating with his head low and his tail denoting anxious thoughts.

“Hyuh, Clem!” said William, trying, with only fair success, to keep his voice from sounding venomous.  “Hyuh, Clem!”

Clematis continued his deprecatory retreat.

Thereupon William essayed a ruse—­he pretended to nibble at something, and then extended his hand as if it held forth a gift of food.  “Look, Clem,” he said.  “Yum-yum!  Meat, Clem!  Good meat!”

For once Clematis was half credulous.  He did not advance, but he elongated himself to investigate the extended hand, and the next instant found himself seized viciously by the scruff of the neck.  He submitted to capture in absolute silence.  Only the slightest change of countenance betrayed his mortification at having been found so easy a gull; this passed, and a look of resolute stoicism took its place.

He refused to walk, but offered merely nominal resistance, as a formal protest which he wished to be of record, though perfectly understanding that it availed nothing at present.  William dragged him through the long hall and down a short passageway to the cellar door.  This he opened, thrust Clematis upon the other side of it, closed and bolted it.