pivot-sleeve of Lord Alderdene's shooting-jacket, hooking the other in
Siward's reluctant elbow, and driving Mortimer ahead of him, he went
garrulously away up the stairs, his lordship's bandy little legs
trotting beside him, the soaking gaiters and shoes slopping at every
step.

Mortimer, his mottled skin now sufficiently distended, greeted the story
with a yawn from ear to ear; his lordship, blinking madly, burst into
that remarkable laugh which seemed to reveal the absence of certain
vocal cords requisite to perfect harmony; and Siward smiled in his
listless, pleasant way, and turned off down his corridor, unaware that
the Sagamore pup was following close at his heels until he heard
Quarrier's even, colourless voice: "Ferrall, would you be good enough to
send Sagamore to your kennels?"

"Oh--he's your dog! I forgot," said Siward turning around.

Quarrier looked at him, pausing a moment.

"Yes," he said coldly, "he's my dog."

For a fraction of a second the two men's eyes encountered; then Siward
glanced at the dog, and turned on his heel with the slightest shrug. And
that is all there was to the incident--an anxious, perplexed puppy lugged
off by a servant, turning, jerking, twisting, resisting, looking
piteously back as his unwilling feet slid over the polished floor.

So Siward walked on alone through the long eastern wing to his room
overlooking the sea. He sat down on the edge of his bed, glancing at the
clothing laid out for him. He felt tired and disinclined for the