"Are you sure he's your dog?"
"Perfectly sure, Mr. Q——."
"How did you come in possession of him?"
"I bought him eight months ago. Am I right in assuming that he's on your prem"——
"Steady, my good man. Who are you? What's your name?"
"I must apologise for not having given my name at first. My name is Collins— of the New South Wales Civil Service. I'm Deputy-Assistant-Sub-Inspec"——
"And what leads you to imply that I've got your dog?"
"Information received."
"Leave the apartment, Naomi," said the magistrate loftily. "Now, Mr. Collins," he continued, pouring out a glass of wine, and holding it between his eye and the light; "I want to ask you"—he drank half the wine, set the glass on the table, and leisurely wiped his mouth with his serviette—"I want to ask you"—he paused again, pursed his lips, and placed his forefinger against his temple—"I want to ask you how you come to imply that the dog is here? 'Information received' was your statement. Be precise this time, Mr. Collins. I'm waiting for your answer."
"I had my information from a man who saw the dog on your premises, Mr. Q——."