delighted to see him. . . .

"Just cleaned them out two days ago, Mr. Vane, sir," she remarked.
New-fangled Army ranks meant nothing to her: Mr. Vane he had
started--Mr. Vane he would remain to the end of the chapter.

"And, Binks, Mrs. Green?" But there was no need for her to answer that
question. There was a sudden scurry of feet, and a wire-haired
fox-terrier was jumping all over him in ecstasy.

"My son, my son," said Vane, picking the dog up. "Are you glad to see
your master again? One lick, you little rascal, as it's a special
occasion. And incidentally, mind my arm, young fellow-me-lad."

He put Binks down, and turned with a smile to Mrs. Green. "Has he been
good, Mrs. Green?"

"Good as good, sir," she answered. "I'm sure he's a dear little dog.
Just for the first week after you went--the same as the other
times--he'd hardly touch a thing. Just lay outside your door and
whined and whined his poor little heart out. . . ."

The motherly old woman stooped to pat the dog's head, and Binks licked
her fingers once to show that he was grateful for what she'd done.
But--and this was a big but--she was only a stop-gap. Now--and with
another scurry of feet, he was once again jumping round the only one
who really mattered. A series of short staccato yelps of joy too great
to be controlled; a stumpy tail wagging so fast that the eye could
scarcely follow it; a dog. . . .

"I believe, Mrs. Green," said Vane quietly, "that quite a number of
people in England have lately been considering whether it wouldn't be a
good thing to kill off the dogs. . . ."

"Kill off the dogs, sir!" Mrs. Green's tone was full of shrill
amazement. "Kill Binks? I'd like to see anyone try." . . . Vane had
a momentary vision of his stalwart old landlady armed with a poker and
a carving knife, but he did not smile.

"So would I, Mrs. Green. . . . So would I. . . ." And with a short
laugh he took the key from her and went upstairs.

The room into which he went first was such as one would have expected
to find in the abode of a young bachelor. Into the frame of the mirror
over the fireplace a score of ancient invitations were stuck. Some
heavy silver photo frames stood on the mantel-piece, while in the
corner a bag of golf clubs and two or three pairs of boxing gloves gave
an indication of their owner's tastes. The room was spotlessly clean,
and with the sun shining cheerfully in at the window it seemed
impossible to believe