“What the mischief is this?” Francis demanded.

“Come in and make enquiries,” Shopland replied.  “I can promise that you will find it interesting.  It’s a sort of dog’s home.”

Francis followed his companion into the place.  A pleasant-looking, middle-aged woman came forward and greeted the latter.

“Do you mind telling my friend what you told me the other day?” he asked.

“Certainly, sir,” she replied.  “We collect stray animals here, sir,” she continued, turning to Francis.  “Every one who has a dog or a cat he can’t afford to keep, or which he wants to get rid of, may bring it to us.  We have agents all the time in the streets, and if any official of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals brings us news of a dog or a cat being ill-treated, we either purchase it or acquire it in some way or other and keep it here.”

“But your dogs in the window,” Francis observed, “all seem to be in wonderful condition.”

The woman smiled.

“We have a large dog and cat hospital behind,” she explained, “and a veterinary surgeon who is always in attendance.  The animals are treated there as they are brought in, and fed up if they are out of condition.  When they are ready to sell, we show them.”

“But is this a commercial undertaking,” Francis enquired carefully, “or is it a branch of the S.P.C.A.?”

“It’s quite a private affair, sir,” the woman told him.  “We charge only five shillings for the dogs and half-a-crown for the cats, but every one who has one must sign our book, promising to give it a good home, and has to be either known to us or to produce references.  We do not attempt, of course, to snake a profit.”

“Who on earth is responsible for the upkeep?”

“We are not allowed to mention any names here, sir, but as a matter of fact I think that your friend knows.  He met the gentleman in here one day.  Would you care to have a look at the hospital, sir?”

Francis spent a quarter of an hour wandering around.  When they left the place, Shopland turned to him with a smile.

“Now, sir,” he said, “shall I tell you at whose expense that place is run?”

“I think I can guess,” Francis replied.  “I should say that Sir Timothy Brast was responsible for it.”

The detective nodded.  He was a little disappointed.

“You know about his collection of broken-down horses in the park at The Walled House, too, then, I suppose?  They come whinnying after him like a flock of sheep whenever he shows himself.”

“I know about them, too,” Francis admitted.  “I was present once when he got out of his car, knocked a carter down who was ill-treating a horse, bought it on the spot and sent it home.”

Shopland smiled, inscrutably yet with the air of one vastly pleased.

“These little side-shows,” he said, “are what help to make this, which I believe will be the greatest case of my life, so supremely interesting.  Any one of my fraternity,” he continued, with an air of satisfaction, “can take hold of a thread and follow it step by step, and wind up with the handcuffs, as I did myself with the young man Fairfax.  But a case like this, which includes a study of temperament, requires something more.”