Average Jones smiled with almost affectionate admiration at the crease along the knee of his carefully pressed trousers. His tone, when next he spoke, was that of a youth bored with life. Any of his intimates would have recognized in it, however, the characteristic evidence that his mind was ranging swift and far to a conclusion.
“Mr. Dorr,” he drawled, “who—er—owned your—er—dog?”
“Why, I—I did,” said the startled chemist.
“Who gave him to you?”
“A friend.”
“Quite so. Was it that—er—friend who—er—offered the reward?”
“What makes you think that?”
“This, to be frank. A man who doesn’t know a bulldog from a bed-spring isn’t likely to be offering a thousand dollars to avenge the death of one. And the minute you answered my question as to whether you cared for dogs, I knew you didn’t. When you fell for a green ribbon, and a splay-legged, curly-tailed medal-winner in the brindle bull class (there’s no such class, by the way), I knew you were bluffing. Mr. Dorr, who—er—has been—er—threatening your life?”
The chemist swung around in his chair.
“What do you know?” he demanded.