In the meanwhile Mr. Ropes had arrived at the house, and had been ushered into the chamber of death. The light was very bad, and he happened to cut the animal while engaged in shaving it.
"Very sorry, Sir," said Mr. Ropes, from force of habit, "but it's not my fault. You've got a pimple there, and you jerked your head just as I was going over it. A little powder will put that all right."
Suddenly it flashed across him that the poodle was not dead if the blood flowed. He rushed out of the room, and found himself confronted by a handsome, wicked-looking man, of about thirty.
"Excuse me, Sir, but that poodle's not dead. It's in a trance. Just run down to the kitchen and fetch me some brandy, some blankets, and some hot bricks, and I'll bring it round."
"The dog is dead, and in a very few hours he'll be stuffed," was the cruel reply. "You needn't trouble to bring it round. If you've brought your tackle round, you can shave it."
"I've been shaving it—and that's how I know."
A door opened on the other side of the passage, and a fair young girl came out in tears and a black dress.
"What's the matter, Algernon?" she said.
"It's nothing, Alice. This idiot says that Tommy's not dead."