In one corner of the room stood a man of about thirty, with a handsome, wicked face. One hand rested on the drawer of a writing-table. Slowly he drew from it a folded paper, and read, in a harsh, raucous voice:—
"'To cleaning and repairing one——' No, that's not it."
He selected another paper. Ah, it was the right one this time!
"'Memorandum of Aunt Jane's Will.' 'All property to go to Alice Smith, unless Aunt Jane's poodle, Tommy Atkins, dies before Alice Smith comes of age. In which case, it all goes to me.' I remember making that note when the will was read. And now"—he glanced at the covered basket—"Tommy's kicked the bucket. Well, he stood in my way. Who's to know? But there must be no post-mortem, no 'vet' fetched in. Happy thought—I'll have the brute stuffed." He knelt down by the side of the basket, and slowly drew back the covering. "Ah!" he said—"it's cruel work."
Did he refer to the chair-back? or did he refer to the way in which, for the sake of gain, an honest dog had been MURDERED? For there before my eyes lay the dead poodle, Tommy Atkins!
"Alice loses all her money," he continued, "but that doesn't matter. She tells me that she's picked up no end of a swell down at Ryde, and he may marry her. The question is—will he?" Once more I felt like a division sum. I yearned to call out loudly, and answer with a decided negative; but no words came. My strength was gone. I was utterly worked out, and there was no remainder.
When I came to myself, I found James, the waiter, standing by my bedside with a gentleman whom I did not know. James introduced him to me as a Mr. Alkaloid, a photographer who was stopping in the hotel. Mr. Alkaloid had been woken up by a wild shriek for a decided negative, and had rushed down to see if he could do a little business. "Take you by the electric light," he said; "just as you are,"—I was in my night-dress and the old, old hat, the rim of which had been slightly sprained,—"perfectly painless process, and money returned if not satisfactory." I thanked him warmly, and apologised for having disturbed him.
I went to London on the following day. I felt it my positive duty to explain that I should always regard Alice Smith as a sister, but nothing more.
I had quite forgotten that I did not know the house where Alice Smith lived, and the poodle dog lay dead.