“I can’t think what you wanted to give that dog such an imbecile name for,” he complained, pointing to a nondescript mongrel which was dozing in front of the fire.

“It does sound a bit silly now that he’s all shaggy,” admitted his daughter. “But he was so dreadfully bare and naked at first, it seemed the only name for the poor darling. And it’s a good name to shout, too. I’ll try calling him Winston, if you really insist, but I don’t think he’d answer to it.”

The general made no answer to this suggestion, but contented himself with clearing his throat very loudly and fiercely.

“Well; what is it?” persisted Susan, as he remained silent. “You didn’t just come in to complain about poor Gandhi, I suppose?”

“As a matter of fact I have come to talk to you about Ga—about that dog of yours,” answered her parent. “He’s been getting into trouble.”

“Trouble? Gandhi? Father, whatever do you mean?”

“Sheep-killing.”

“But that’s absurd!” cried Susan, thoroughly aroused. “You know he wouldn’t dream of it! He has chased a few old hens now and then just for the fun of it, I admit, but he won’t even so much as look at a sheep. How could you think of such a thing?”

“It isn’t what I think at all,” said the general. “It’s what the police think.”

“D’you mean to say the police are after my poor old Gandhi?”

“I don’t know who or what they’re after,” replied the general testily. “But you know as well as I do that there has been a lot of trouble over sheep-worrying lately on the downs——”

“And nobody’s ever dreamt of saying it was Gandhi’s fault——”

“——And the police are making enquiries. And I think they are quite right too,” he added hastily, before he could be further interrupted.

“But how do you know they are enquiring about Gandhi?” asked Susan.

“That’s what I should have told you five minutes ago if you wouldn’t keep interrupting. They’ve just been on the telephone from Lewes.”

“Asking about my precious Gandhi?”

“Asking about a large dog belonging to me. I told them I hadn’t got a large dog, but that you had.”

“Father!”

“Well, that’s true, isn’t it?” asked the general, instantly on the defensive before the accusing stare of his daughter’s blue eyes. “He is your dog, I suppose? You know I’ve never taken any responsibility for him—no responsibility at all.”

“Did you let them accuse Gandhi of worrying sheep and never say a single word for him?” demanded Susan menacingly.

“Certainly not, my dear girl,” her father reassured her. “Nothing of the sort. There isn’t any accusation. I tell you, they are simply making enquiries.”

“What sort of enquiries?”