“You will hear from me again,” said the nephew sourly.

“Thank you,” said Mr. Lavender.  “I shall be glad of a proof; it is always safer, I believe.”

“Good morning,” said the nephew.

Blink, who alone perceived the dark meaning in these words, seeing him move towards the door began to bark and run from side to side behind him, for all the world as if he had been a flock of sheep.

“Keep her off!” said the nephew anxiously.  “Keep her off.  I refuse to be bitten again.”

“Blink!” called Mr. Lavender in some agony.  Blink, whose obedience was excessive, came back to him at once, and stood growling from under her master’s hand, laid on the white hair which flowed back from her collar, till the nephew’s footsteps had died away.  “I cannot imagine,” thought Mr. Lavender, “why she should have taken exception to that excellent journalist.  Perhaps he did not smell quite right?  One never knows.”

And with her moustachioed muzzle pressed to his chin Mr. Lavender sought for explanation in the innocent and living darkness of his dog’s eyes....

On leaving Mr. Lavender’s the nephew forthwith returned to the castle in Frognal, and sought his aunt.

“Mad as a March hare, Aunt Rosie; and his dog bit me.”

“That dear doggie?”

“They’re dangerous.”

“You were always funny about dogs, dear,” said his aunt soothingly.  “Why, even Sealey doesn’t really like you.”  And calling to the little low white dog she quite failed to attract his attention.  “Did you notice his dress.  The first time I took him for a shepherd, and the second time—–!  What do you think ought to be done?”

“He’ll have to be watched,” said the nephew.  “We can’t have lunatics at large in Hampstead.”

“But, Wilfred,” said the old lady, “will our man-power stand it?  Couldn’t they watch each other?  Or, if it would be any help, I could watch him myself.  I took such a fancy to his dear dog.”

“I shall take steps,” said the nephew.

“No, don’t do that.  I’ll go and call on the people, next door.  Their name is Scarlet.  They’ll know about him, no doubt.  We mustn’t do anything inconsiderate.”

The nephew, muttering and feeling his calf, withdrew to his study.  And the old lady, having put on her bonnet, set forth placidly, unaccompanied by her little white dog.

On arriving at the castle embedded in acacias and laurustinus she asked of the maid who opened: 

“Can I see Mrs. Scarlet?”

“No,” replied the girl dispassionately; “she’s dead.”

“Mr. Scarlet, then?”

“No,” replied the girl he’s a major.”

“Oh, dear!” said the old lady.

“Miss Isabel’s at home,” said the girl, who appeared, like so many people in time of war, to be of a simple, plain-spoken nature; “you’ll find her in the garden.”  And she let the old lady out through a French window.