"Your dog, madam?" I began.
"It's no use denying it," she burst in, "I saw you do it. I saw you pick it up and carry it to the trap. It's—it's monstrous. I shall go to the police about it."
Meanwhile, it cannot be denied, the dog was showing signs of delight and recognition such as had previously been lacking.
"But——" began my hostess, who is anything but quarrelsome.
"We ought to know our own dog when we see it," said the daughter, who does not disdain a fight.
"Certainly," said the angry lady, "if you have a dog of your own."
"Of course we have," said the daughter; "we have a West Highland named Bunty."
"This happens to be my West Highland, named Wendy," said the lady, "as you will see if you look on the collar. My name is there too—Miss Morrison, 14 Park Terrace, W. I am staying at Well House Farm."
And it was so.
It was on the tip of my tongue to point out that collars, being easily exchangeable, are not evidence; but I thought it better that any such suggestion should come from elsewhere.