He was away on circuit just then, luckily; but, at least, even he would have found it a hard task to find Bingo—­there was comfort in that.

“You know that isn’t just, Lilian,” I observed; “but only tell me what you want me to do.”

“Bub-bub-bring back Bingo!” she said.

“Bring back Bingo!” I cried, in horror.  “But suppose I can’t—­suppose he’s out of the country, or—­dead, what then Lilian?”

“I can’t help it,” she said, “but I don’t believe he is out of the country or dead.  And while I see you pretending to uncle that you cared awfully about him, and going on doing nothing at all, it makes me think you’re not quite—­quite sincere!  And I couldn’t possibly marry any one while I thought that of him.  And I shall always have that feeling unless you find Bingo!”

It was of no use to argue with her; I knew Lilian by that time.  With her pretty, caressing manner she united a latent obstinacy which it was hopeless to attempt to shake.  I feared, too, that she was not quite certain as yet whether she cared for me or not, and that this condition of hers was an expedient to gain time.

I left her with a heavy heart.  Unless I proved my worth by bringing back Bingo within a very short time, Travers would probably have everything his own way.  And Bingo was dead!

However, I took heart.  I thought that perhaps if I could succeed by my earnest efforts in persuading Lilian that I really was doing all in my power to recover the poodle, she might relent in time, and dispense with his actual production.

So, partly with this object, and partly to appease the remorse which now revived and stung me deeper than before, I undertook long and weary pilgrimages after office hours.  I spent many pounds in advertisements; I interviewed dogs of every size, colour, and breed, and of course I took care to keep Lilian informed of each successive failure.  But still her heart was not touched; she was firm.  If I went on like that, she told me, I was certain to find Bingo one day; then, but not before, would her doubts be set at rest.

I was walking one day through the somewhat squalid district which lies between Bow Street and High Holborn, when I saw, in a small theatrical costumer’s window, a hand-bill stating that a black poodle had “followed a gentleman” on a certain date, and if not claimed and the finder remunerated before a stated time would be sold to pay expenses.

I went in and got a copy of the bill to show Lilian, and, although by that time I scarcely dared to look a poodle in the face, I thought I would go to the address given and see the animal, simply to be able to tell Lilian I had done so.