“Indeed! And you appeal it, of course?”
“Yes.”
“The decision is bound to be reversed,” the Doctor assured him, “and the second trial will go in your favor. I have never doubted the ultimate outcome. What is that scratching noise?”
Miss Lady, who was just entering, paused to listen, then she suddenly set the cup she carried on the table, and flung open the door.
A long, shaggy, disheveled dog, with small, sad eyes, and a stub of a tail, hurled himself upon her, and began rapturously to lick her hands.
“It's Mike,” she cried joyously, sitting on the floor and gathering her muddy visitor into her arms. “I knew he'd find out we were home. Oh! you blessed, blessed dog!”
Mike, unable to restrain his transports, made a mad tour of the room, upsetting the stack of manuscript that the Doctor had neatly arranged on a stand beside him. On his second round he discovered the visitor whom he sniffed with increasing excitement.
Donald raised a forefinger, and tapped his knee. In an instant Mike remembered. Lifting his fore-paws, and dropping his head upon them, he answered the call to prayer.
Two pairs of eyes met involuntarily, and the owners smiled.
“Do put him out, my dear,” urged the Doctor, who had stooped to pick up the scattered sheets of his manuscript. “This is the last volume of my series, Donald. You remember I was collecting data for it when you were at the university. I had expected to publish it this spring, but it will have to be postponed now.”