"I fancy I do," he said grimly, and drew in a quick breath. "And now may I see my dog?"
The fair-haired girl led the way to the hospital.
The building, which stood by itself, was as fresh and cool as a dairy, and a faint clean smell of sanitary fluid rose from its tiled floor. In the hall were a table and a watchman's chair. Half a dozen rooms led out of the hall. The girl went straight to the door of one of these, turned the handle gently, and the next moment they were in the little chamber. This was full of light and air, for the French windows, which gave on to a broad veranda, were wide open. Upon the garden beyond the sun was shining gloriously.
By the side of the great square basket set in a corner Anthony fell on his knees.
"Why, Patch …"
The little scrap tried gamely to leap for his master, but his strength failed him, and he fell sideways on to the pine shavings. Lyveden gathered him gently into his arms and let him lick his face.
"Did you think I was never coming, Patch? Did you think I'd forgotten my little dog? My poor little fellow … my little boy…."
The laboured breathing slipped into a cough, and Lyveden laid the terrier back on the shavings. There he got to his feet and coughed desperately. The exertion seemed to exhaust him, for, when the fit was over, he lay down where he stood, keeping his eyes upon Anthony and now and again moving his little tail.
The fair-haired girl, who had gone, reappeared, followed by the grey-headed kennel-man bearing a deck-chair.
"I expect you'll like to stay with him for a bit," she said pleasantly.