Also he maintained a deaf ear to Miss Testram’s voice without, calling her property, so that she was compelled, mostly, to cross his threshold. Why he did this he had no idea. It was of course ridiculous that he should want to see the lady, for on these occasions they were exceedingly hostile towards each other, not to say rude.

One day when Katharine called at Ruthven’s flat for the straying Mr. Sykes, Ruthven greeted her with a malicious smile.

“I regret to say that Sykes is not with me,” he said.

“Not with you? Then where—I don’t believe you!”

Ruthven bowed.

“Give him to me at once, please!”

“He isn’t here.”

“Then where is he?” she demanded suspiciously. “Have you stolen him?”

“You can hardly expect to answer that question,” he replied. “Have you lost him?”

“You know very well that I have!” she snapped, and hurried out.

Two hours later, Ruthven strolled out of his flat and inquired casually of the hall-porter whether Miss Testram’s dog had been found. On being told that Miss Testram’s dog had not been found, he went out and slid into his racing car.

He spied Mr. Sykes at length, plodding homewards, quite near the block, with an end of rope trailing behind him.

Ruthven slowed down and invited the somewhat grimy Sykes to enter the car. Relievedly the bulldog clambered in and licked Ruthven’s hand by way of thanks.

Arrived once more at the block of flats, Ruthven surveyed his protégé gravely.

“Mr. Sykes. honesty compels me to remark that you are not over-clean.”

Mr. Sykes heaved a large sigh.

“Also—to put it plainly—that you smell.”

Mr. Sykes wagged his tail guiltily.

“I suggest that we repair to my flat. I can hardly return you to the Spitfire in that condition. A bath is what you need.”

Mr. Sykes, hearing the hated word, followed him dejectedly into the lift.

“MR. RUTHVEN’S compliments, miss, and he has found Mr. Sykes, and will return him as soon as he is dry.”

“Found him? Oh, thank heaven! Where is he? Send him to me at once, please!”

“You see, miss, the dog was a bit dirty, and Mr. Ruthven has been washing him,” explained the man.

Katharine hesitated. Then she came out of the flat and shut the door. “I’ll come and fetch him,” she said.

She found Mr. Sykes wrangling amicably with his host and an old towel.

“Thank you for taking so much trouble over Sykes,” she said frigidly. “I am sorry I accused you of stealing him.”

“Not at all,” answered Ruthven, just as coldly. “Won’t you sit down?”

“I should prefer to take him home at once, thank you.”

“Certainly,” shrugged Ruthven.

A month later, Ruthven slit open a letter addressed to him in an unknown but palpably feminine hand-writing, and read as follows:—

“Dear Mr. Ruthven,

“Circumstances over which I have no control compel me to part with Mr. Sykes. If you still wish to purchase him, perhaps you will communicate with me. I enclose his pedigree. I am asking twenty guineas for him.