“Sykes! Sykes! Where are you, Mr. Sykes? Here, boy!”

The bulldog waddled to the door, and looked over his shoulder at his host.

“My dear Mr. Sykes,” Ruthven addressed him, “if you belong to a member of what we blindly and mistakenly call ‘the gentle sex’, you have my sympathy.”

The bulldog seemed to deprecate this remark. The voice called again and he snorted loudly.

Ruthven rose languidly.

“You are mistaken,” he said. “When you have had more experience of women you will know that there is nothing harder, more cruel, and more treacherous. Do you still wish to rejoin your mistress?”

Mr. Sykes wagged the whole of his hindquarters.

“You do. Far be it from me, then, to seek to detain you. Farewell.” Ruthven opened the door and watched Mr. Sykes waddle out. A dark girl stood at the head of the stairs. She greeted her strayed property joyfully, but in the middle of her welcome, she perceived Ruthven, and a hard light came into her eyes.

“I must apologise for harbouring your dog,” Ruthven said smoothly, yet with that bitter note in his voice.

“Not at all,” said the girl stiffly. She called to Mr. Sykes, and went into the opposite flat. The door shut with a decided click.

Katharine Testram eyed Mr. Sykes sadly.

“Sykes, how could you?” she demanded.

Mr. Sykes squirmed apologetically.

“A man!” said Katharine. “Don’t you know that men are hateful, cruel, fickle creatures?”

Mr. Sykes cocked his ears a little.

“They are!” averred Katharine stoutly. “Don’t you forget how a man treated me—and how a man treated poor Lucille.”

Mr. Sykes licked her hand.

“You can’t judge all men by two rotters,” said his ears.

“They’re all the same,” said Katharine, positively. “’Cept you.”

From which cryptic remark it will be gathered that a man had treated Katharine very badly. As was indeed the case.

A year ago her father had died, leaving her his blessing. And that was all he had to leave, save some debts. It had been a severe shock to Katharine, for she had always expected to be well-off, and had never troubled her head about money-matters. But Mr. Testram had been led astray in his investments, with the result that Katharine was left with just fifty pounds a year, and a bulldog. She was engaged to be married—and her fiancé broke it off.

Now she was acting as companion to her great-aunt, a crotchety, exacting old lady who never failed to impress two facts upon her niece: one, that she had allowed her to keep Mr. Sykes as a great concession; two, that Katharine should not expect to be mentioned in her will.

Only the dread thought of having to part with Mr. Sykes induced Katharine to remain with Mrs. Hilton. She would have preferred to seek a living in almost any other way, but she realised that were she to strike out on her own, Mr. Sykes would have to be sacrificed. And Mr. Sykes was all that remained to her.