“He’s here,” she called out to Constance.

“I wish you’d go down, Sophia,” said Constance.  “I can’t trust that minx——­”

So Sophia went downstairs to superintend the opening of the door by the minx.

The doctor was radiant, according to custom.

“I thought I’d just see how that dizziness was going on,” said he as he came up the steps.

“I’m glad you’ve come,” said Sophia, confidentially.  Since the first days of their acquaintanceship they had always been confidential.  “You’ll do my sister good to-day.”

Just as Maud was closing the door a telegraph-boy arrived, with a telegram addressed to Mrs. Scales.  Sophia read it and then crumpled it in her hand.

“What’s wrong with Mrs. Povey to-day?” the doctor asked, when the servant had withdrawn.

“She only wants a bit of your society,” said Sophia.  “Will you go up?  You know the way to the drawing-room.  I’ll follow.”

As soon as he had gone she sat down on the sofa, staring out of the window.  Then with a grunt:  “Well, that’s no use, anyway!” she went upstairs after the doctor.  Already Constance had begun upon her recital.

“Yes,” Constance was saying.  “And when I went down this morning to keep an eye on the breakfast, I thought Spot was very quiet—­” She paused.  “He was dead in the drawer.  She pretended she didn’t know, but I’m sure she did.  Nothing will convince me that she didn’t poison that dog with the mice-poison we had last year.  She was vexed because Sophia took her up sharply about Fossette last night, and she revenged herself on the other dog.  It would just be like her.  Don’t tell me!  I know.  I should have packed her off at once, but Sophia thought better not.  We couldn’t prove anything, as Sophia says.  Now, what do you think of it, doctor?”

Constance’s eyes suddenly filled with tears.

“Ye’d had Spot a long time, hadn’t ye?” he said sympathetically.

She nodded.  “When I was married,” said she, “the first thing my husband did was to buy a fox-terrier, and ever since we’ve always had a fox-terrier in the house.”  This was not true, but Constance was firmly convinced of its truth.

“It’s very trying,” said the doctor.  “I know when my Airedale died, I said to my wife I’d never have another dog—­unless she could find me one that would live for ever.  Ye remember my Airedale?”

“Oh, quite well!”

“Well, my wife said I should be bound to have another one sooner or later, and the sooner the better.  She went straight off to Oldcastle and bought me a spaniel pup, and there was such a to-do training it that we hadn’t too much time to think about Piper.”

Constance regarded this procedure as somewhat callous, and she said so, tartly.  Then she recommenced the tale of Spot’s death from the beginning, and took it as far as his burial, that afternoon, by Mr. Critchlow’s manager, in the yard.  It had been necessary to remove and replace paving-stones.