"You are listening to me," said Meldon. "I thought you would when the
story began to get interesting. And you're perfectly right. The king
was a fool. He was such a fool that he killed the dog. Afterwards it
turned out that the dog had really been behaving in the most noble way
possible--had, in fact, been fighting a wolf which wanted to eat the
baby. Then the king was sorry, frightfully sorry, because he saw that
through his own hasty and ill-considered action he had killed his best
friend, a friend who all along had been acting in his interests. You
see the point of that story, don't you? You'll be exactly in the
position of the king, and you'll suffer endless remorse just as he did
if you go and sack Sabina."

Doyle meditated on the story. It produced a certain effect on his
mind, for he said,--

"If so be it wasn't Sabina that put the paraffin oil into the judge's
dinner, but some other one coming in unbeknown to her, and Sabina maybe
doing her best to stop it, then of course there wouldn't be another
word said about it; though as soon as ever I found out who it was--"

"You mustn't push the parable to those extremes," said Meldon. "No
parable would stand it. Sabina did pour in the paraffin oil. I'm not
pretending that a wolf or any animal of that sort came in and meddled
with the judge's food. I'm merely trying to explain to you that later
on, when you understand all the circumstances, you'll find yourself
tearing out your hair, and rubbing sack-cloth and ashes into your skin,
just as the king did when he realised what he had done in the case of
the dog Gelert. As well as I recollect the poor man never got over it."

"Dogs or no dogs," said Doyle, "Sabina Gallagher will have the wages
due to her paid, and then off with her out of my house. For conduct
the like of hers is what I won't stand, and what nobody in a hotel
would stand."

"Very well," said Meldon; "I've told you what the consequences of your
action will be. If you choose to face them you can. I've done my best
to save you. But you are evidently bent on going your own way. I
daresay you may be quite right in supposing that you won't suffer much,
even when you find out that you have committed a gross injustice.
After all, it requires a man to have some sort of a conscience to
suffer in that sort of way, and you apparently have none. But there's
another consideration altogether that I'd like to bring under your
notice. I've had