The Mistress turned a worried gaze on the superintendent.

“It was best, I suppose,” she said bravely.  “We agreed he must be sold, if the judge decided he was not any good.  But I’m sorry.  For I’m fond of him.  I’m sorry he is going to live in New York, too.  A big city is no place for a big dog.  I hope this Dr. Halding will be nice to the poor puppy.”

“Dr.—­Who?” sharply queried the superintendent, who had not caught the name when the Master had spoken it in his rapid-fire speech.  “Dr. Halding?  Of New York?  Huh!

“You needn’t worry about the effect of city life on your dog,” he went on with venomous bitterness.  “The pup won’t have a very long spell of it.  If I had my way, that man Halding would be barred from every dog-show and stuck in jail.  It’s an old trick of his, to buy up thoroughbreds, cheap, at shows.  The bigger and the stronger they are, the more he pays for them.  He seems to think pedigreed dogs are better for his filthy purposes than street curs.  They have a higher nervous organism, I suppose.  The swine!”

“What do you mean?” asked the Mistress, puzzled by his vehemence.  “I don’t—­”

“You must have heard of Halding and his so-called ’research work,’” the superintendent went on.  “He is one of the most notorious vivisectionists in—­”

The superintendent got no further.  He was talking to empty air.  The Mistress had fled.  Her determined small figure made a tumbled wake through the crowd as she sped toward Bruce’s bench.  The puppy was no longer there.  In another second the Mistress was at the door of the building.

A line of parked cars was stretched across the opposite side of the village street.  Into one of these cars a large and loose-jointed man was lifting a large and loose-jointed dog.  The dog did not like his treatment, and was struggling pathetically in vain awkwardness to get free.

“Bruce!” called the Mistress, fiercely, as she dashed across the street.

The puppy heard the familiar voice and howled for release.  Dr. Halding struck him roughly over the head and scrambled into the machine with him, reaching with his one disengaged hand for the self-starter button.  Before he could touch it, the Mistress was on the running-board of the car.

As she ran, she had opened her wristbag.  Now, flinging on the runabout’s seat a ten and a five-dollar bill, she demanded—­

“Give me my dog!  There is the money you paid for him!”

“He isn’t for sale,” grinned the Doctor.  “Stand clear, please.  I’m starting.”

“You’re doing nothing of the sort,” was the hot reply.  “You’ll give back my dog!  Do you understand?”

For answer Halding reached again toward his self-starter.  A renewed struggle from the whimpering puppy frustrated his aim and forced him to devote both hands to the subduing of Bruce.  The dog was making frantic writhings to get to the Mistress.  She caught his furry ruff and raged on, sick with anger.