All at once, just as I reached the climax, we heard the poodle barking furiously at the hedge which separated my garden from the road.
“There’s a foreign-looking man staring over the hedge,” said Lilian; “Bingo always did hate foreigners.”
There certainly was a swarthy man there, and, though I had no reason for it then, somehow my heart died within me at the sight of him.
“Don’t be alarmed, sir,” cried the colonel; “the dog won’t bite you—unless there’s a hole in the hedge anywhere.”
The stranger took off his small straw hat with a sweep. “Ah, I am not afraid,” he said, and his accent proclaimed him a Frenchman; “he is not enrage at me. May I ask, it is pairmeet to speak viz Misterre Vezzered?”
I felt I must deal with this person alone, for I feared the worst; and, asking them to excuse me, I went to the hedge and faced the Frenchman with the frightful calm of despair. He was a short, stout little man, with blue cheeks, sparkling black eyes, and a vivacious walnut-coloured countenance; he wore a short black alpaca coat, and a large white cravat, with an immense oval malachite brooch in the centre of it, which I mention because I found myself staring mechanically at it during the interview.
“My name is Weatherhead,” I began with the bearing of a detected pickpocket. “Can I be of any service to you?”
“Of a great service,” he said, emphatically; “you can restore to me ze poodle vich I see zere!”
Nemesis had called at last in the shape of a rival claimant. I staggered for an instant; then I said, “Oh, I think you are under a mistake; that dog is not mine.”
“I know it,” he said; “zere ‘as been leetle mistake, so if ze dog is not to you, you give him back to me, hein?”