And I'm no man to judge you, not having
been through the like or the beginnings of it. . . . You were
rescued, for here you are. That's enough. But--damn it all!--you
left the man!"
"--And the dog. While we are about it, don't let us forget the dog,"
said Jack wearily. "Shall we toss who pays the bill? Here--waiter!"
We parted under the porch-cover, in the traffic of Regent Street.
I have told you that, in our best of days, Jack and I never shook
hands, meeting or parting. It saved awkwardness now.
BOOK IV.
THE COUNTERCHASE.
NIGHT THE TWENTY-FIRST.
THE YELLOW DOG.
About two months later--to be accurate, it was seven weeks and two
days--my flat in Jermyn Street was honoured with a totally unexpected
call by Constantia Denistoun. Constantia has a way of committing
improprieties with all the _aplomb_ of innocence. She just walked
upstairs and walked into the room where Jephson and I were packing
gun-cases.
"Hallo!" said she. "You seem to be in a mess here."
"Please sit down," said I, removing a sporting rifle and bundle of
cotton-waste from the best arm-chair.
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