Young Mrs. Wiley stared pallidly at the likeness of the founder of the Wiley clan. "White paint," she conjectured. Then, peering closer at the canvas: "Somebody's scraped off the paint where the dog used to be."
Stiff and grim, his own man now, her husband faced her.
"Does my boy keep that dog?"
Behind them sounded a low exclamation. At the head of the staircase stood young Frank, the puppy tucked securely under one arm.
"Nobody's going to take away my little dog that Great-grandfather Wiley brought me," cried the lad stoutly, black eyes flashing, thin face determined and unyielding.
"Don't let that dog come near me!" screamed Mrs. Frank and went into a genuine attack of hysteria. "He isn't real!"
Doctor Parris exchanged a look with Miss Beaver, whose face was pale but contented.
"I always knew you were psychic," he whispered, brows drawn into a puzzled scowl. "That's how the old gentleman, God rest his wilful soul, could get through."
"I wondered that he never spoke a single word! Now that it's over, I think I'm going to faint," decided Miss Beaver shakily.
"Nonsense," snapped the doctor with scant courtesy. "But she is well scared, thank God. I hardly think she will interfere much in future with young Frank. And by the looks of him, the boy's father has had his backbone stiffened considerably."