“He’s a nice-looking beast,” he remarked, still scrutinising Diogenes closely. “Might be a prize dog if it wasn’t for his coat.”
“What is wrong with his coat?” inquired Mr Musgrave anxiously.
“That is what I should like to be able to state definitely. The colour isn’t good.”
The speaker here examined the dog at a nearer range, to Mr Musgrave’s further discomfiture. When he faced Mr Musgrave again there was a puzzled questioning in his eyes, but he made no further allusion to the dog; the subject was tacitly dropped.
The wisdom of having Diogenes on the chain was manifested when the moment arrived for Mr Chadwick to separate from Diogenes and his new master and proceed on his homeward way. Diogenes, despite a very real attachment for his new owner, was faithful to the old allegiance and showed so strong a desire to follow Will Chadwick to the Hall that Mr Musgrave had to exert his strength in order to restrain him. The business of holding Diogenes as he tugged determinedly at the chain put Mr Musgrave to the undignified necessity of tugging also. Mr Chadwick left them struggling in the road and proceeded on his way with an amused smile; a smile which broadened and finally ended in a laugh.
“I wonder what he smears on the coat to make him that colour?” he mused as he walked. Then he laughed again.
With the knowledge of the Chadwicks’ return Mr Musgrave realised the necessity for keeping Diogenes once more strictly on the chain, save only when he had the dog with him in the house; and Diogenes, resenting this return to captivity, sulked in his kennel and brooded dark plans of escape during his compulsory inactivity. The desire to escape hardened into an unalterable resolve following on a visit from Peggy, which visit moved him to such transports of delight that Peggy found it as much as she could do to prevent herself from being knocked over. She clung, laughing, to Mr Musgrave’s arm for support when Diogenes hurled himself upon her; and King, who at the moment of her arrival had been engaged in the motor-house with Mr Musgrave, regarded the grouping with disfavour, until, catching Mr Musgrave’s eye, he left what he was doing and retired.
“Oh,” cried Peggy, “isn’t he glad to see me?”
She let go of Mr Musgrave’s arm and busied herself with Diogenes, while Mr Musgrave looked on, feeling unaccountably very much out in the cold.
“He is looking well,” she said, glancing up at John Musgrave and flushing brightly as she met his eye. “He has grown quite stout.”