"I knew you would take it so," said Jack quietly, with a sort of sigh.
"Well," said I, "how else? Of course I know you'd had a damnable provocation, to start with. And I'm no man to judge you, not having been through the like or the beginnings of it.… You were rescued, for here you are. That's enough. But—damn it all!—you left the man!"
"—And the dog. While we are about it, don't let us forget the dog," said Jack wearily. "Shall we toss who pays the bill? Here—waiter!"
We parted under the porch-cover, in the traffic of Regent Street. I have told you that, in our best of days, Jack and I never shook hands, meeting or parting. It saved awkwardness now.
BOOK IV.
THE COUNTERCHASE.
NIGHT THE TWENTY-FIRST.
THE YELLOW DOG.
About two months later—to be accurate, it was seven weeks and two days—my flat in Jermyn Street was honoured with a totally unexpected call by Constantia Denistoun. Constantia has a way of committing improprieties with all the aplomb of innocence. She just walked upstairs and walked into the room where Jephson and I were packing gun-cases.