“Yours truly,

“Katharine Testram.”

Ruthven read the document through twice. He did not glance at the pedigree, but rose and went to his desk. In his neat, masterly hand, he answered the letter in this wise:—

“Dear Miss Testram,

“I enclose a cheque for twenty guineas. If you will send Mr. Sykes over to my flat at your convenience, I can promise that he will receive every attention, and an appreciative owner. I trust you will visit him whenever you wish.

“Yours truly,

“Hugh Ruthven.”

“Now, confound it, why have I asked the girl to visit him?” exclaimed Ruthven. He twisted the letter in his hand, undecidedly. “Oh, well! Let it stand!”

With trembling lips Katharine gave Mr. Sykes a last hug.

“He—he’ll—be good to you, darling. He—he’s got a hard, cruel m-mouth, but he likes you. An’—an’ it was—it was a n-nice letter! Only I sh-shan’t ever c-come to see you—cos—it’ud—m-make you so miserable. Be—besides he— abominates—women!” She kissed the top of Mr. Sykes’ head, and hurriedly departed, while the sympathetic parlour-maid took Sykes and a receipt to Mr. Ruthven’s flat.

For Katharine's great-aunt was dead at last, to the great relief of her family. An attack of bronchitis had carried her off, and Katharine was left, practically penniless. She had tried hard to find a post as companion to some lady who would not object to her keeping Mr. Sykes, but that lady did not seem to be in existence. Either she herself possessed a dog, or a cat, or had a rooted objection to them. Try as she might, Katharine could find but one solution to the problem. Mr. Sykes must go to the hated Ruthven.

RUTHVEN stretched his legs to the fire, and frowned down at Mr. Sykes, lying uneasily at his feet.

“I’ve been finding out one or two things about your late mistress, Sykes,” he said.

Mr. Sykes lifted his head. A hopeful gleam came into his worried eyes, and he snuffled eagerly. The word “mistress” had caught his attention. Ruthven patted him.

“Sorry, old man. That was not my meaning. She’s in a bad way, you know. She’s very hard up.”

Mr. Sykes gave vent to a short, gruff bark. He waddled to the door.

“All right,” said Ruthven. “But it’s only for your sake, remember!” He pulled out his pocket-book and drew from it a slip of paper. “Radclyffe Gardens,” he read. “Beastly hole. Come along.”

Mr. Sykes followed him joyously out. Twenty minutes later the manageress of the boarding-house eyed Ruthven curiously.

“Miss Testram has gone,” she announced.

“Gone! Where?”

The manageress folded her hands.

“Our charges were too high for Miss Testram,” she exclaimed. “I believe she has gone into rooms.”

“Will you please give me the address?” said Ruthven coldly.

“Oh, certainly!” She disappeared into her office, drawing her skirts away from Mr. Sykes. Presently she emerged. “Bryan Road,” she announced, with a small sniff. “No. 245.”

“Thank you,” bowed Ruthven. “Come along, Sykes.” Once in his car again, he frowned at Sykes. “Bryan Road?” he said. “Do you call that a proper place for a girl like the Spitfire?”