There was a faltering footstep outside, and Mr. Nickerson re-entered the room. The man appeared to have something on his mind. A glassy look was in his whisker-bordered eyes, and his mouth, though it was not easy to see it through the jungle, seemed to me to be sagging mournfully. He resembled a minor prophet who has been hit behind the ear with a stuffed eel-skin.
“Mr. Ukridge!”
“Hallo?”
“The—the little dogs!”
“Well?”
“The little dogs!”
“What about them?”
“They have gone!”
“Gone?”
“Run away!”