The weight upon Mr Musgrave’s conscience attendant on the duplicity which he of necessity was called upon to practise daily was so burdensome that he was imperatively moved to confide in some one, and thereby share, if not shift, the responsibility. Some idea of confiding in Walter Errol had been with him from the first; and, meeting the vicar one morning when he was returning from an early walk with Diogenes, the desire to unburden his mind hardened to a determination upon perceiving the amazement in the vicar’s eyes as they rested upon the dog he led an unwilling captive on the chain.
The vicar halted in the road and laughed.
“I heard you were starting kennels,” he said; “but, upon my word! I didn’t believe it. Wherever did you buy that dog?”
Mr Musgrave had not bought Diogenes and he had no intention of pretending that he had.
“It was given to me,” he said.
“Oh, that explains it,” the vicar answered.
But even while he spoke it occurred to Mr Musgrave that the dog had not been given to him; he had offered to take it.
“I am taking care of it for some one,” he corrected himself.
The vicar looked mystified and faintly amused.
“That’s doing a lot for friendship, isn’t it, John?” he asked.