When Mr Musgrave entered the yard on the following morning, from force of habit rather than in the expectation of finding Diogenes there, it was to discover Diogenes in his kennel, for all the world as though he had never absented himself in the interval.
Diogenes’ welcome of Mr Musgrave was almost as effusive as his greeting of Peggy on the previous evening; he was beginning to realise his position as a dog with two homes and a divided allegiance. Doubtless were he received back at the Hall he would on occasion find his way to Mr Musgrave’s home as a matter of course. There were many things in Mr Musgrave’s home that Diogenes approved of. He approved of Martha’s attentions in the matter of table delicacies, and he appreciated the thick skin rug before the fire in Mr Musgrave’s drawing-room; but the kennel and the chain were indignities against which he felt constrained to protest.
Mr Musgrave unfastened the chain and took Diogenes for his walk, an attention which Diogenes did not merit, but Mr Musgrave felt so ridiculously pleased to see him again that he forgave the overnight defection, as he had forgiven the smashing of his dinner-service; he simply ignored it.
In view of this magnanimous treatment it was distinctly ungracious of Diogenes to repeat his truant performance within a fortnight of his previous escapade; yet repeat it he did, as soon as by his docile behaviour he had allayed Mr Musgrave’s doubts of him so far as to lead to a decrease of vigilance, and a greater laxity in the matter of open doors.
Diogenes broke bounds again at about the same hour on a balmy evening in June; and Mr Musgrave hastened as before to the vicarage with a second note to be entrusted to the handy sexton. But here a check awaited him. Robert, on being appealed to by the vicar, stoutly refused to go to the Hall on any business after dusk.
“Not if you was to offer me a hund’ed pounds, sir,” he affirmed earnestly. “I wouldn’ go up thicky avenue in the dimpsy again, not for a thousand—no, I wouldn’. Leave it bide till the mornin’ an’ I’ll take it.”
Mr Errol returned to John Musgrave with the tale of his non-success.
“I daresay I could find someone else to take it, John,” he said, with a whimsical smile. “But my reputation is likely to suffer, unless you sanction the note being delivered at the door, instead of into Miss Annersley’s own hand. That stipulation is highly compromising.”
Mr Musgrave flushed.
“I am afraid I didn’t think of that,” he said, and took the note from the vicar and tore it in half. “I am glad you mentioned it. It is not fair, either, to Miss Annersley.”