“Almost what you might call ingratiating. But Peter Paul—that’s my dog’s name, you know—doesn’t take to uncle. He’s a crotchety old doggie.”
“He’s a wise old doggie,” amended the other, with emphasis. “Has your uncle taken him out, at all?”
“Once he tried to. I met them at the corner. All four of Peter Paul’s poor old fat legs were braced, and he was hauling back as hard as he could against the leash.”
“And the occurrence didn’t strike you as peculiar?”
“Well, not then.”
“When does your uncle give up this house?”
“At the end of the week. Uncle and aunt leave for Europe.”
“Then let me suggest again that you and Peter Paul go at once.”
Miss Graham pondered. “That would mean explanations and a quarrel, and more strain for auntie, who is nervous enough, anyway. No, I can’t do that.”
“Do you realize that every day Peter Paul remains here is an added opportunity for judge Ackroyd to make a million dollars, or a big share of it, by some very simple stratagem?”