Mr. Sykes sneezed.

“I should think not,” said Ruthven. “And you must understand that it is solely on your account that I am seeking her out.”

He imagined a quizzical gleam in the bulldog’s eye. He promptly stared Mr. Sykes out of countenance.

Miss Testram had rented a bed-sitting-room over a furniture shop. Ruthven and Sykes climbed slowly up the dingy staircase, and knocked at Katharine’s door. Mr. Sykes snuffled violently, for his nose had caught a whiff of his mistress’s scent.

Katharine opened the door, and the instant he set eyes on her, Ruthven decided that she looked wan and underfed.

“What—oh, Sykes!” Katharine fell on her knees, and received Mr. Sykes’ heavy body in her arms. For a little while he occupied all her thoughts, and the air was filled with mingled snuffles, tears, and laughter. Then Katharine stood up, brushing her hand across her eyes.

“I—beg your pardon. I—what—”

“I brought Mr. Sykes to see you,” said Ruthven. “He misses you rather badly.”

“He’s getting thin,” she reproached him.

“I know. May I ask what you are doing?”

“I—I take in—typing,” she said, as jauntily as she could.

Ruthven looked hard at her.

“Yes? Well, is there any reason why you should not keep Sykes with you, now that you are in all day?”

A sudden flush dyed Katharine’s cheeks.

“Oh! Oh, could—” She collected herself. “I—I’m afraid I can’t—offer to—to buy him back—just at present,” she said with difficulty. “It’s—very kind of you.”

“No, it is not,” contradicted Ruthven. “I can’t have a moping dog on my hands. If you’ll take him, you’ll be doing me a favour. There is no immediate hurry for payment. I hope you will—er—pay me at your convenience.”

Katharine’s eyes filled.

“Do—do you—really mean—it?” she asked.

“Of course I mean it!” he answered roughly. “But I must ask you to let me—er—visit him occasionally.”

“I don’t—feel I ought—”

“I shall not take him back with me, so if you don’t keep him, he’ll stray.”

“I—I haven’t much choice, have I?” she said with a tired sort of smile. “Thank you very, very much. I—I hope you’ll come to see him—whenever you like.” She held out her hand.

Ruthven took it, and found himself saying:

“Er—I wonder—could you lunch with me tomorrow?”

Katharine was surprised.

“Lunch with you? It’s very kind of you, but—”

“And Sykes, of course. I’ll call for you.”

“But—”

“Please don’t argue!” said Ruthven, curtly, and departed.

A MONTH later, after several lunches, two teas, and some motor-drives with Katharine, Ruthven received a letter from her.

“Dear Mr. Ruthven,

“It’s no good. I can’t keep Sykes. He frets terribly for you, and I can’t bear to see him growing so thin. Will you please take him back? He likes you better than me.

“Yours sincerely,

“Katharine Testram.”

Ruthven spent half an hour staring into the fire. Then he carefully folded the letter and put it into his pocket-book, together with another in the same hand-writing. Next he wrote an answer to Katharine.