How hard she had tried to express her thanks by addressing him as Jemmie without letting him see what an effort it was, for she had known that nothing could please him more. Somehow she gulped out the Christian name. How happy he had been. And with what grateful affection he had patted Mac good-by.
The picture faded, and now there behind her stood Daisy Harland examining Mac critically in the manner of one who knew all that there was to be known about dogs.
"Not a bad little pup. Come here, boy, and say how-do to your Aunt Daisy."
But Mac simply would not go and say "how-do" to his Aunt Daisy, and from the first had attached himself exclusively to his mistress.
There he was now growling in Pierre's arms on the day of the dog-fight in Kensington Gardens.
Pierre?
Strange that to-night Mac should die, to-night when he who had entered her life with Mac's help should now stand once more upon its threshold. Pierre? Why should she not write to Pierre? No harm would come from that. If he refused to answer her letter, nobody would be any the wiser.
"Mac! Mac! Mac!"
Silence. No pitter-pat of dear bandy legs. He was lying out there in the cold garden.