This picture, as it impressed the vicar, when a few evenings later he was shown in and beheld a similar grouping, so similar that it appeared as if the man and dog had remained in the same positions without interruption, was so surprising, despite its cosy, natural air, that he entirely forgot the object of his visit, nor remembered it until he was on his homeward way.

"Hallo!" he exclaimed, as John Musgrave rose to greet him, and, removing the cigar from his mouth, wrung his hand warmly. "You look jolly comfortable. The wind is bitter to-night. It is good to shelter in a room like this."

"Sit down," said Mr Musgrave. He pushed the cigars towards his friend.

"Will you smoke?" he asked.

Walter Errol's eyes twinkled as he accepted a cigar and snipped the end with a contemplative stare at Diogenes. He did not, however, betray the amazement he felt, but appeared to regard these innovations as very ordinary events.

The big dog sprawling before the hearth and the smoke-laden atmosphere of the room which, until Mrs Chadwick had first profaned it, had been preserved from the fumes of tobacco, were surprisingly agreeable novelties. The vicar had seldom enjoyed an evening in John Musgrave's drawing-room so much as he enjoyed that evening, sitting chatting with his friend over old college days and acquaintances. It was late when he rose to go, and still he had not mentioned the matter about which he had come, did not mention it at all; it had slipped from his mind entirely.

"It's so comfortable here," he said, with his jolly laugh, "that I'm loth to go, John. There is only one substitution I could suggest, and one addition, to improve the picture."

"What are they?" asked Mr Musgrave, his glance travelling round the homelike room.

The vicar paused and seemed to reflect.

"Well," he said at last, "I would substitute a child in place of the dog, and... But you don't need to inquire what form the addition would take. We've discussed all that before. I'm not sure I wouldn't make them both additions," he added, "and let the dog remain."

Mr Musgrave reddened.

"Don't you think," he suggested, with a diffidence altogether at variance with his usual manner of receiving this advice, "that I am rather old for such changes?"

"You are just over forty," the other answered, "and forty is the prime of life... Any age is the prime of life when a man is disposed to regard it so. You grow younger every day, John."

When the vicar left him John Musgrave returned to the fire and stood beside Diogenes on the rug, staring thoughtfully down into the flames.

In the heart of the flames he saw a picture of an upturned face, of a pair of darkly grey eyes gazing earnestly into his.

"You are so kind, so very kind." The words repeated themselves in his memory. "I wish there was something I could do for you..."

John Musgrave stirred restlessly. Were the words sincere, he wondered?

They had been sincere at the time, he knew; but possibly they had been prompted by the gratitude of the moment; and gratitude is no more enduring than any other quality. He glanced at Diogenes, who, with a much-wrinkled brow, was also contemplating the flames.

"I think it would be extortionate to demand payment for the service, Diogenes," he said.

Diogenes looked up and snorted approval.

"It is, after all, a privilege to feel that one has rendered some service and has received her thanks. I don't think it would be fair--to her--to expect more."

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

May was well advanced before the Chadwicks returned from their wanderings. They came home unexpectedly towards the middle of the month, cutting short their stay in London because certain matters in Moresby called imperatively for Mrs Chadwick's immediate attention; and Peggy, for another reason which she did not explain, was very ready to fling aside the holiday mood and return to work.

The first intimation John Musgrave received of the Chadwicks' return came from the fountain head, being conveyed to him in a manner and at a moment when, glad though he was to learn that the family was home again, he would have preferred to have remained in ignorance until a more favourable opportunity. As matters fell out, however, he made the best of them, and wore as composed a mien as possible in face of an embarrassing situation.

Mr Musgrave was starting out for his customary morning walk in Diogenes' company when outside his gate he came very unexpectedly full upon Will Chadwick. Had Diogenes' memory been less faithful the meeting might have passed off without awkwardness; but Diogenes, recognising his former master, became so wildly effusive in his welcome that Mr Chadwick during the first few moments could not disentangle himself from the dog's excited embraces, or return Mr Musgrave's greeting. He laughed when finally he shook John Musgrave's hand.

"Your dog seems to have taken a violent fancy to me," he said.

"Quiet, Diogenes!" Mr Musgrave commanded unthinkingly. "Down, sir!"

Will Chadwick looked at Diogenes, and from the dog to Mr Musgrave.

Then he looked again at Diogenes more attentively. There was in the protracted scrutiny, in the queer glint in the indolent blue eyes, a hint of something very like suspicion, as though Mr Musgrave's ingenuousness were being questioned. King's face, when Mr Musgrave took the dog into Rushleigh for purposes of the toilet, wore much the same expression.

"This is a surprise," exclaimed Mr Musgrave. "I had no idea you were back."

"We got home last night. Motored from town; a good run, but tiring."

"I trust," Mr Musgrave said, "that the ladies are well?"

"First rate, thanks." Will Chadwick watched Mr Musgrave as, having succeeded in grasping Diogenes' collar, he promptly fixed the chain.

"New dog, eh?" he said.

"I have had him some months," Mr Musgrave replied. "But I prefer to keep him on the chain when we get outside the gate. He is a bit wild."

"Seems to be--yes."

Mr Chadwick continued to regard the dog reflectively. He had heard of people turning suddenly white through shock; he was wondering whether change of residence could have the effect of changing a white bull-dog into a brindle.

"You call him Diogenes?" he observed. "It's odd, but he is so like the dog we had I could almost swear it is the same. Same stock, perhaps.

What's his pedigree?"

"I really haven't an idea," Mr Musgrave replied, feeling increasingly uncomfortable. "The resemblance you speak of to your dog is very marked. I have observed it myself. I call him Diogenes on that account."

"Oh!" said Mr Chadwick.

The talk hung for a time. Mr Chadwick was debating whether a strong family likeness between two animals might extend to the affections in so far as to incline them towards the same persons. Mr Musgrave's brindle betrayed the fawning devotion towards himself that he had been accustomed to from his own dog.

"He's a nice-looking beast," he remarked, still scrutinising Diogenes closely. "Might be a prize dog if it wasn't for his coat."

"What is wrong with his coat?" inquired Mr Musgrave anxiously.

"That is what I should like to be able to state definitely. The colour isn't good."

The speaker here examined the dog at a nearer range, to Mr Musgrave's further discomfiture. When he faced Mr Musgrave again there was a puzzled questioning in his eyes, but he made no further allusion to the dog; the subject was tacitly dropped.

The wisdom of having Diogenes on the chain was manifested when the moment arrived for Mr Chadwick to separate from Diogenes and his new master and proceed on his homeward way. Diogenes, despite a very real attachment for his new owner, was faithful to the old allegiance and showed so strong a desire to follow Will Chadwick to the Hall that Mr Musgrave had to exert his strength in order to restrain him. The business of holding Diogenes as he tugged determinedly at the chain put Mr Musgrave to the undignified necessity of tugging also. Mr Chadwick left them struggling in the road and proceeded on his way with an amused smile; a smile which broadened and finally ended in a laugh.

"I wonder what he smears on the coat to make him that colour?" he mused as he walked. Then he laughed again.

With the knowledge of the Chadwicks' return Mr Musgrave realised the necessity for keeping Diogenes once more strictly on the chain, save only when he had the dog with him in the house; and Diogenes, resenting this return to captivity, sulked in his kennel and brooded dark plans of escape during his compulsory inactivity. The desire to escape hardened into an unalterable resolve following on a visit from Peggy, which visit moved him to such transports of delight that Peggy found it as much as she could do to prevent herself from being knocked over. She clung, laughing, to Mr Musgrave's arm for support when Diogenes hurled himself upon her; and King, who at the moment of her arrival had been engaged in the motor-house with Mr Musgrave, regarded the grouping with disfavour, until, catching Mr Musgrave's eye, he left what he was doing and retired.

"Oh," cried Peggy, "isn't he glad to see me?"

She let go of Mr Musgrave's arm and busied herself with Diogenes, while Mr Musgrave looked on, feeling unaccountably very much out in the cold.

"He is looking well," she said, glancing up at John Musgrave and flushing brightly as she met his eye. "He has grown quite stout."

"That," said Mr Musgrave, "is Martha's fault. She can't understand that over-feeding is as injurious as the other extreme. She shows her affection for Diogenes by pandering to his appetite."