He lifted one hand, laid it on the spaniel’s head, and smoothed the
black hair, moving his hand backwards to the neck. The dog turned its
head back towards him and showed his white teeth, as if his master’s
hand drew him but to a demonstration of hatred, not of affection.
Vernon smiled, lifted his hand, and repeated the action. The dog gave a
low growl ending in a whine.
“Now you haven’t told me what you think of him,” Vernon continued, “and
I want to know. I want very much to know.”
I looked into the spaniel’s eyes, and again something cold lay upon my
nerves like ice.
“Why?” I said. “What does it matter what I think?”
“Do answer my question!” Vernon said with unwonted irritation.
“There’s something about the dog,” I said, “that’s—that’s⸺”
“Yes?” he said sharply.
“That’s uncanny.”
“Ah!” The word was a long-drawn sigh. “You think that!”
“Yes, I shouldn’t care to have him about me. I shouldn’t care to sleep
with him in my room.”
“Sleep! Heaven forbid!”
His exclamation was almost shrill. It startled me.
“Where does the dog sleep?” I asked. “Where do you put him at night?”
“There’s a dressing-room opening out of my bedroom. He’s shut in there.”
“And you—you say you’ve been sleeping badly lately?”
“I haven’t been sleeping at all.”
“Does he whine? Does he disturb you?”
“He never makes a sound at night. I think he’s afraid that if he did I
should punish him. He’s evidently had an unkind master, poor fellow.”
There was something so hideously insincere in Vernon’s voice as he
said the last words that I could not help expressing the thought, the
suspicion that had been, that was haunting me.
“Has he got a kind master now?” I said.