Logan agreed and they drove to his objective in the afternoon; it was beyond the border of known
West Hammersmith. Trevor reconnoitred and made judicious notes of short cuts.
On the following day, which was Thursday, Logan had a difficult piece of diplomacy to execute. He called at the rooms of the clergyman, a bachelor and a curate, whose dog and person had suffered from the assaults of Miss Blowser’s Siamese favourite. He expected difficulties, for a good deal of ridicule, including Merton’s article, Christianos ad Leones, had been heaped on this martyr. Logan looked forward to finding him crusty, but, after seeming a little puzzled, the holy man exclaimed, ‘Why, you must be Logan of Trinity?’
‘The same,’ said Logan, who did not remember the face or name (which was Wilkinson) of his host.
‘Why, I shall never forget your running catch under the scoring-box at Lord’s,’ exclaimed Mr. Wilkinson, ‘I can see it now. It saved the match. I owe you more than I can say,’ he added with deep emotion.
‘Then be grateful, and do me a little favour. I want—just for an hour or two—to borrow your dog,’ and he stooped to pat the animal, a fox-terrier bearing recent and glorious scars.
‘Borrow Scout! Why, what can you want with him?’
‘I have suffered myself through an infernal wild beast of a cat in Albany Grove,’ said Logan, ‘and I have a scheme—it is unchristian I own—of revenge.’
The curate’s eyes glittered vindictively: ‘Scout is no match for the brute,’ he said in a tone of manly regret.
‘Oh, Scout will be all right. There is not going to