“He was on the beach, back yonder,” explained Brice.  “He seemed to adopt me, and...”

“Haven’t I met you, somewhere?” she broke in, studying his dim-seen face more intently and at closer range.

“No,” he made answer.  “But you’ve seen me.  At least I saw you.  You, and a big man with a gold beard and a white silk suit, and this collie, were in a car, listening to Bryan’s sermon, this morning.  I recognized the collie, as soon as I saw him again.  And I guessed what must have happened.  I guessed, too, that he was a new dog, and that he hadn’t learned the way home, yet.  It’s lucky I was able to bring him to you.  Or, rather, that he was able to bring himself to you.”

“And to think I rewarded you for all your trouble, by threatening to shoot you!” she said, in sharp contrition.

“Oh, please don’t feel sorry for that!” he begged.  “It wasn’t really as deadly as you made it seem.  That is an old style revolver, you see, vintage of 1880 or thereabouts, I should say.  Not a self-cocker.  And, you’ll notice it isn’t cocked.  So, even if you had stuck to your lethal threat and had pulled the trigger ever so hard, I’d still be more or less alive.  You’ll excuse me for mentioning it,” he ended in apology, noting her crestfallen air.  “Any novice in the art of slaying might have done the same thing.  Shooting people is an accomplishment that improves with practice.”

Coldly, she turned away, and crossed to where the collie was beginning to weary of his fruitless efforts to climb the shinily smooth bark of the giant gumbo-limbo.  Catching him by the collar, she said: 

“Bobby!  Bobby Burns!  Stop that silly barking!  Stop it at once!  And leave poor little Simon Cameron alone!  Aren’t you ashamed?”

Now, Bobby was not in the least ashamed—­except for his failure to reach his elusive prey.  But, like many highbred and highstrung collies, he did not fancy having his collar seized by a stranger.  He did not resent the act with snarls and a show of teeth, as in the case of the beach comber.  But he stiffened to offended dignity, and, with a sudden jerk, freed himself from the little detaining hand.

Then, loftily, he stalked across to Gavin and thrust his muzzle once more into the man’s cupped palm.  As clearly as by a dictionary-ful of words, he had rebuked her familiarity and had shown to whom he felt he owed sole allegiance.

While the girl was still staring in rueful indignation at this snub from her dog, Brice found time and thought to stare with still greater intentness up the tree, at a bunch of bristling fur which occupied the first crotch and which glared wrathfully down at the collie.

He made out the contour and bashed-in profile of a huge Persian cat, silver-gray of hue, dense of coat, green of eye.

“So that’s Simon Cameron?” he queried.  “What a beauty!  And what a quaintly Oriental name you’ve chosen for him!”