The door opened and Robin came in, carrying a bag and holding the dog by the leash.

“Barry!” said Mrs. Braithwaite. She got off the chair. The dog trotted straight to her and licked her hand.

“Barry, Barry, little Barry. You've had quite an adventure, haven't you!”

She petted him.

He licked her some more, then turned around, stared at me, and cocked his head.

“You look wonderful, Barry,” said Mrs. Braithwaite. To us: “He looks wonderful, thank you so much.”

“Our pleasure,” said Robin. “He's a great little guy.”

“Yes, he is—aren't you, Barrymore? Such a sweet boy, even with your snoring—did he snore?”

“Loud and clear,” said Robin. Smiling, but her eyes had that pretears look I knew so well. I took her hand. She squeezed mine and began emptying the bag. Ebony bridge blanks.

The dog padded back over to us and propped his forelegs on Robin's thigh. She rubbed him under the chin. He pressed his little head to her leg.

“Mother loved that. The snoring. Barry was actually Mother's—she kept English bulldogs and Frenchies for over fifty years. Did quite a bit of breeding and showing in her day. And obedience training.”

“Did she perimeter train him?” I said. “To avoid water?”

“Oh, of course. She trained all her dogs. She had lily ponds and a big pool, and the poor things sink like stones. Then her back started to go and the English were too heavy for her to carry, so she kept only Frenchies. Then she got too weak even for the Frenchies. Barry was her last little boy. She imported him three years ago. Flew him all the way from Holland.”

A linen hankie came out of the handbag. She took off her glasses and dabbed at her eyes.

“Mother passed away three weeks ago. She'd been ill for a while and Barry was her faithful companion—weren't you, sweetie?”

She reached out her hand. The dog settled on all fours but remained next to Robin.

Mrs. Braithwaite dabbed some more. “He stayed in bed with her, barked for the nurse when she started to—I do believe he was the reason she kept going as long as she did. But of course, in—when she—the last time we had to call the paramedics, such terror and commotion. Barry must have slipped out. I didn't realize it until later. . . .”

“Where did your mother live?” I said.

“Little Holmby. Just off Comstock, south of the boulevard.”

Two miles from my house.

She said, “He managed to cross Sunset—all that traffic.” Dab. “Poor little boy, if anything had happened to you!”

“Well,” said Robin, “thank God he made it.”

“Yes. I see that—you've made a nice little home for him, haven't you?”

“We tried.”

“Yes, yes, I can see that . . . yes . . . would you like to have him?”

Robin's mouth dropped open. She looked at me.

I said, “You don't want him?”