“Tell me just what you think,” Gernham said.
“Well,” I answered, with some hesitation, “it’s an abrupt change of
front after his behaviour yesterday.”
“Too abrupt,” he said. “I don’t like it; I don’t like it at all. You
were right, Luttrell; there is a mystery here—a mystery connected with
that dog. But I haven’t got your opinion yet!”
He was a persistent man, and did not readily lose sight of his object.
“You want to know how I explain Vernon’s change of front.”
“Exactly.”
“It seems to me that he has thought things over since yesterday, and
resolved to avail himself of this pretext to keep you out of his
house.”
“That’s it!” exclaimed Gernham. “I’ve given him his opportunity like
a fool, and he’s taken it, like a clever man. But where an animal is
concerned I’m not so easily dished. A good many people who’ve appeared
in the London police-courts know that.”
“When you got this note, what did you do?”
“I tried to question Cragg.”
“And the result?”
“Nil. Directly I mentioned the dog, he looked as grim as death, and
became monosyllabic. There’s something up, and Cragg has an inkling
of it. But he’ll never tell it to me. You’ve got to go into this,
Luttrell.”
At this moment lunch was announced, and the rest of the conversation
took place in the dining-room. Directly after lunch Gernham hurried
away, leaving me pledged to act where he could not act, pledged to
probe to the bottom, and without delay, the mystery of the black
spaniel.
My relation with Vernon was now almost exactly similar to his former
relation with Deeming, and Gernham was to be the inactive watcher, the
waiter on events engineered by others, that I had formerly been. But
there was a difference in this new situation which had followed so
strangely upon the death of Deeming. Vernon had never been Deeming’s
friend. From the first moment when they met the two men had been
instinctively hostile to one another. But I was Vernon’s friend. I
cared for him. Till now I had believed in him. This fact complicated
matters painfully. And yet I did not hesitate, did not feel that in my
understanding with Gernham I was being treacherous, disloyal.
For the eyes of the black spaniel haunted me, summoned me, seemed to
force me to go on, to investigate this mystery. By them I was driven
to do as I did. By them I was told that in my friend a new man, a
stranger, had arisen, and that in attacking this stranger—if attack
were necessary—I should not be false to my friendship with the man
who had lived in Rome, the quiet lover of pictures, the gentle, idle,
cultivated Vernon of the Trinità dei Monti.
Vernon was generally at home after six in the evening. I resolved to
seek him at that hour on the same day, and carried my resolution into
effect. Cragg opened the door to me.
“Mr. Kersteven at home, Cragg?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Can I see him?”
“If you’ll wait a moment, Sir, I’ll ask.”