Skiddles hesitated. Mr. Carter made no sign.
"Pete! Pete!" shrilled the voice again.
Slowly, very slowly, Skiddles turned and went back into the bedroom.
"You see," said Mr. Carter, smiling, "he won't be too unhappy away from me, Mrs. Bailey."
On his way home the philanthropist saw even more evidences of Christmas gaiety along the streets than before. He stepped out briskly, in spite of his sixty-eight years; he even hummed a little tune.
When he reached the house on the avenue he found his secretary still at work.
"Oh, by the way, Mr. Mathews," he said, "did you send that letter to the woman, saying I never paid attention to personal appeals? No? Then write her, please, enclosing my check for two hundred dollars, and wish her a very Merry Christmas in my name, will you? And hereafter will you always let me see such letters as that one—of course after careful investigation? I fancy perhaps I may have been too rigid in the past."
"Certainly, sir," answered the bewildered secretary. He began fumbling excitedly for his note-book.
"I found the little dog," continued the philanthropist. "You will be glad to know that."
"You have found him?" cried the secretary. "Have you got him back, Mr. Carter? Where was he?"