I reviewed Vernon’s character as I knew it carefully, considered all
that I had heard of him from others, trying to find a clue that would
guide me to comprehension. But I remained perplexed. I knew good of
him. I had always heard praise of him, except from one person, the man
who was dead and in whose house he now lived. Deeming had said to me
once that Vernon was a black fanatic; the phrase was strong, brutal
even. It recurred to my mind as I walked, and stayed there. Then I
thought of the terror in the spaniel’s eyes as it lay motionless
against the red curtain of the workroom. And I was troubled, I was
strangely ill at ease. It seemed to me that in my friend, hidden away
like a thing hidden in a cave, was something mysterious, something even
terrible, and that the black spaniel was connected with it. But how
could that be? Vernon loved all animals. He was at this very moment
devoting his life to the advancement of their welfare. For them he had
thrown off his long idleness of the lounging traveller, the luxurious
art-lover, who wandered from country to country buying to please his
whim. For them he stayed in England and lived laborious days. Why,
then, when I thought of the spaniel shut up in his study, should I
be chilled with fear? I reasoned with myself, but in vain. The sense
of fear, of mystery, remained with me. It was deepened by an incident
which occurred six days later.
During those days I had not seen Vernon; I had heard nothing of him or
of the black spaniel.
The incident to which I alluded was my meeting for the first time with
Arthur Gernham.
At a man’s dinner, given by a famous throat-specialist renowned not
only as a surgeon but as a host, I found myself sitting opposite to a
very remarkable-looking man of about forty years of age. I had not been
introduced to him, and had no idea who he was, but he at once attracted
my attention by his air of fiery vitality and his unconventional
attire. Instead of the ordinary evening dress, he wore a pair of black
trousers, a loose silk shirt with a turned-down collar and very small
black tie, and a double-breasted smoking-coat which concealed his
waistcoat, if he had one. His powerful, sinewy wrists were unfettered
by cuffs, and his powerful throat was free from the stiff linen
ramparts over which the average Englishman faces the world in the
evening. He was evidently a man who hated restraint. His face was pale,
of the hatchet type, with a long hooked nose, the bridge of which was
unusually marked; a large mouth, unsmiling but not unkind; a narrow,
very high forehead, and gleaming hazel eyes. His head was sparsely
covered with odd tufts of light-brown hair.
During dinner Gernham talked a great deal in a rasping voice. His
conversation was interesting, for he was not only intelligent, but
obviously an enthusiast, and one who was entirely fearless of the
opinion of others. I wondered much who he was, and as we were getting
up from the table I found an opportunity to ask my host.
“Arthur Gernham,” he said. “Very down on us doctors, but an interesting
fellow. In another age he’d have courted persecution for the faith that
is in him. Let me introduce you.”
And he did so.
Gernham shook me warmly by the hand.
“My dear colleague Kersteven has often spoken of you,” he said. “You
sympathise with our efforts, don’t you?”
He jerked his head upwards and looked at me keenly. I said
something—I’ve forgotten what—and he continued abruptly—
“Come along. Let’s have a good talk. Have a cigar.”
He gave me a very large one, flung himself down in an armchair, and
talked enthusiastically of Vernon.
“I’ve been almost living in his house this last week,” he said.
“We’re preparing a fresh campaign on behalf of the blessed beasts,
our brothers. We’ve got together some statistics that’ll startle the
comfortable elbow-chair Englishmen, I can tell you. I’ll never rest
till I’ve roused the country to the horrors that are being perpetrated
every day, every hour, every minute, upon the defenceless animals God
has committed to us to be good to. And Vernon—what a splendid chap
he is! What a colleague! All pity! The man’s made of pity, made of
tenderness. Ah, but you know that!”
“Yes!” I said.
I thought of the black spaniel. Here was an opportunity to find out how
Vernon and his pet were getting on together.
“You’ve been in the house with Vernon a great deal lately?” I began.
“Every day and all day,” he said, “this last week.”
“How’s that new pet of his?” I asked. “Reconciled and happy in his new
home?”
“Pet?” said Gernham.
“Yes, the dog.”
“He hasn’t got one. Don’t you know the hideous story? He once had a
spaniel called⸺”
“I know,” I interrupted. “And he’s got another.”
“Not he!” rejoined Gernham, with sledge-hammer certainty. “He’ll never
have another. I understand the poor chap’s feelings. At the same time⸺”
But here I interrupted again, and told Gernham the story of Vernon’s
acquisition of the spaniel. He heard me with an amazement he did not
try to conceal.
“And you mean to say the dog’s in the house now?” he cried, when I had
finished.
“I suppose so, unless he’s got rid of it already.”
Gernham sat quite still with his thin hands spread out on his knees
staring at me hard.
“This is extraordinary,” he said at last, with a sort of biting
decision.
“You mean that he didn’t mention the fact that he had a dog?”
“I mean more than that. I mean that he concealed it from me.”
“Concealed it?”
“Certainly. I’ve got any amount of animals—dogs, cats, the whole
show—and I’m always urging Kersteven to set up a happy family. We
preach kindness, he and I. We ought to practise it actively as much as
we can. But his feelings about his dead dog have always stood in the
way. I’m perpetually trying to convert him to my view. I’ve been at it
this week.”
“And he said he hadn’t a dog?”
“No. But he never said he had one. It’s much the same thing under
the circumstances. I should never have thought Kersteven could be
deceitful. I don’t like it. I—I hate it!”
At this moment we were interrupted. Two of the other men came up and we
had no more private talk that evening. When I was going away Gernham
said—
“Come and see me—will you? Here’s my card.”