"Hullo, you scamp, hullo!" laughed Piers, responding to the dog's caresses with a careless hand. "Out of the way with you! I'm late."
"As usual," observed Sir Beverley, leaning slowly forward, still with his eyes unblinkingly fixed upon his grandson's merry face. "Come here, boy!"
Piers came to him unabashed.
Sir Beverley got heavily to his feet and took him by the shoulder. "Who is that woman, Piers?" he said, regarding him piercingly.
Piers' forehead was instantly drawn by a quick frown. He stood passive, but there was a suggestion of resistance about him notwithstanding.
"Whom do you mean, sir?" he said. "What woman?"
"You know very well who I mean," snarled Sir Beverley. "Come, I'll have none of your damn' nonsense. Never have stood it and never will. Who was that white-faced cat that got in my way this afternoon and helped you to a thrashing? Eh, Piers? Who was she, I say? Who was she?"
Piers made a sharp involuntary movement of the hands, and as swiftly restrained himself. He looked his grandfather full in the face.
"Ask me after dinner, sir," he said, speaking with something of an effort, "and I'll tell you all I know."
"You'll tell me now!" declared Sir Beverley, shaking the shoulder he gripped with savage impatience.