It was Bobby Burns.

The collie had suffered himself to be led indoors by the girl whom he had never seen until that morning, and for whom, thus far, he had formed no affection.  But his wistful, deepset dark eyes had followed Gavin Brice’s receding form.  He could not believe this dear new friend meant to desert him.  As Brice did not stop, nor even look back, the collie waxed doubtful.  And he tugged to be free.  Claire spoke gently to him, a slight quiver in her own voice, her dark eyes, like his, fixed upon the dwindling dark speck on the dusky white road.

“No, Bobby!” she said, under her breath, as she petted the restless head.  “He won’t come back.  Let’s forget all about it.  We both behaved foolishly, you and I, Bobby.  And he —­well, let’s just call him eccentric, and not think about him any more.”

She drew the reluctant collie into the house, and closed the door.  But, a few minutes later, when her back chanced to be turned, and when a maid came into the room leaving the door ajar, Bobby slipped out.

In another five seconds he was in the road, casting about for Brice’s trail.  Finding it, he set off, at a hard gallop, nostrils close to the ground.  Having once been hit and bruised, in puppyhood, by a motor car, the dog had a wholesome respect for such rapid and ill-smelling vehicles.  Thus, as he saw the lights and heard the engine-purr of one of them, coming toward him, down the road, he dodged back into the wayside hedge until it passed.  Which is the reason Milo Standish failed to see the dog he had been hunting for.

A little later, Brice’s scent became so distinct that the collie could abandon his nose-to-the-ground tactics and strike across country, by dead-reckoning, guided not only by his nose but by the sound of Gavin’s steps.  Then, in an access of delight, he burst upon the plodding man.

“Why, Bobby!” exclaimed Brice, touched by the dog’s rapture in having found him again.  “Why, Bobby Burns!  What on earth made you follow me?  Don’t you know I’m not your master?  Don’t you, Bobby?”

He was petting the frisking collie as he talked.  But now he faced about.

“I’ve got to take you back to her, old man!” he informed the highly interested dog.  “You belong to her.  And she’ll worry about you.  I’ll just take you into the dooryard or to the front lawn or whatever it is, and tie you there, so some one will find you.  I don’t want to get my plans all messed up by another talk with her, to-night.  It’s a mean trick to play on you, after you’ve taken all the trouble to follow me.  But you’re hers.  After this rotten business is all over, maybe I’ll try to buy you.  It’s worth ninety per cent of your value to have had you pick me out for your master.  Any man with cash enough can be a dog’s owner, Bobby.  But all the cash in the world won’t make him the dog’s master without the dog’s own consent.  Ever stop to think of that, Bobby?”