John Musgrave reddened.
“Is obliging a friend an excessive courtesy?” he inquired.
“Well, no. I stand rebuked.”
The vicar stooped and patted Diogenes and looked him over critically.
“It’s a funny thing,” he said, “but he’s extraordinarily like the bull they had up at the Hall—except, of course, for his colour.”
“He is,” Mr Musgrave said, firing off his bomb as calmly as though he were making a very ordinary statement, “the same dog.”
“Oh!” said the vicar, and straightened himself and looked John Musgrave squarely in the eyes. “I understood,” he said, “that Diogenes was shot.”
“Diogenes ought to have been shot,” replied Mr Musgrave, and it ran through his mind at the moment to wish that Diogenes had been shot, but he checked the ungenerous thought, and added: “Miss Annersley rescued him and smuggled him away. He is, as a matter of fact, in hiding from the authorities.”
“Which accounts,” remarked the vicar, “for his colour.” He stooped to pat Diogenes again in order to conceal from his friend’s eyes the smile in his own. “And Miss Annersley brought him to you?” he said, with the mental addition, “Little baggage?”
“No,” said Mr Musgrave, and proceeded with great care to outline the facts of the case, omitting details as far as possible. “She was so very upset,” he finished. “And really it seemed regrettable to sacrifice a valuable dog after the mischief was done. The only uneasiness I feel in the matter is in regard to the Chadwicks. I should not like to annoy them.”