Then he blew his candle out, and again he went across to the door and listened.  Opening it at last, he slithered along the familiar corridor till he reached the three shallow steps which led up to the comparatively new part of Old Place.  There he felt his way with his fingers along the wall to the room which had always been called, as long as he could remember, “George’s room.”  Turning the handle of the door slowly, he saw, to his great surprise and gladness, that his godfather was not asleep.

Radmore was sitting up in bed, reading luxuriously by the light of four candles which he had placed on a table by his bedside.

“Hello!” he exclaimed, as his godson’s odd-looking little figure shuffled across the room.  “Why, what’s the matter?” He spoke very kindly, for Timmy’s face was scared, his eyes red-rimmed with crying.

“Come to have a chat, old boy?  Why, Timmy—­” as he suddenly realised the boy was fully dressed, “whatever have you been doing?  I thought you’d gone to bed ever so long ago!”

“I’ve been in bed a long time,” answered Timmy, sidling up close to his bed, “but I’ve just had a talk with Mum.  I’ve come to ask you, Godfrey, if you’ll help me with something very important.”  He added:  “Even if you won’t help me, I trust you to keep my secret.”

“Of course I’ll keep your secret, old son.”

“I’m going to take Josephine and her kittens to Trotman,” Timmy announced solemnly.  “I’ve been wondering, coming along the passage, if you would take us there in your motor.  But if you don’t feel you want to do that, I’m going to walk.  It’s not very far, only seven miles if one goes by footpaths, and I could get a lift back.”

“Trotman?” repeated Radmore.  “Who’s Trotman?”

It was Timmy’s turn to be surprised.  “I thought everyone—­I mean every man—­in the world, knew about Trotman!  Why, there was an account of him once in the London Magazine.  He’s the famous vet—­he lives at Epsom.”

Radmore lay back, and whistled thoughtfully.

Timmy went on eagerly.  “Last year there was a man near here who thought he had a mad dog—­and he took him to Trotman.  Trotman kept him for ever so long, and it turned out that the dog was not mad at all.  I know that Josephine isn’t mad.”

“I don’t think she’s mad,” said Radmore frankly, “but she’s a pretty vicious brute, Timmy.  Is this the first time she’s ever flown at anyone?” He looked searchingly at his godson.

“The very first time of all,” answered the boy passionately.  “I know why Josephine flew at Mrs. Crofton—­at least she didn’t fly at her—­at Mrs. Crofton.  She flew at the dog Mrs. Crofton always has with her.”

Radmore gave the child a long, steady look.

“Come, Timmy, you know as well as I do that Mrs. Crofton had no dog with her.”

“She had a dog with her,” repeated Timmy obstinately.  “It’s not a dog you can see, but I see him and Flick sees him.  I wanted to see if Josephine would see him too.  That’s why I took her in there.  So if she’s shot it will be all my fault.”  His voice broke, and, covering his face with his hands, he turned his back on the bed and its occupant.