I opened the door. Of course, my sudden fear had been absurd. I peered out into the passage, and a little exclamation broke from my lips. Sitting on his haunches just outside, his mouth open, his little, red tongue hanging out, was a small Japanese spaniel. There may have been thousands of others in the world, but that one I was very sure, from the first, that I recognized, and I was equally sure that he recognized me. I stared at him fascinated. His bead-like, black eyes blinked and blinked again; and his teeth, like a row of ivory needles, gleamed white from his red gums. He neither growled nor wagged his tail, but it seemed to me that the expression of his aged, puckered-up little face was the incarnation of malevolence. I pointed to him, and whispered hoarsely to Guest:
"Her dog!"
"Whose?" he asked sharply.
"Miss Van Hoyt's," I answered.
"Rubbish!" he declared. "There are hundreds of dogs like that."
I shook my head.
"Never another in the wide world," I said. "Look how the little brute is scowling at me!"
The bedroom steward came round the corner at that moment. I pointed to the dog.
"I always understood that dogs were not permitted in the state-rooms, steward," I remarked.
"They are not, sir," the man answered promptly. "The young lady to whom this one belongs has a special permission; but he is not allowed to be out alone. He must have run away."