"Martha is a dear," the girl said warmly. "You are a lucky dog, Diogenes, to have found so kind a home. I hope he is good, that he doesn't give any trouble. Has he broken anything more?"

"No," said Mr Musgrave, and smiled at the memories her words recalled.

"He behaves excellently. Of late I have accustomed him to the house. I find him companionable, and he dislikes being chained here."

Peggy looked amazed.

"But I thought you--didn't allow dogs indoors?" she said.

"I have never had a dog before," he replied. "I allow Diogenes the run of the house. The concession was made when you went away, because-- because he seemed to miss you."

"You dear?" Peggy said, hugging Diogenes.

It was not very clear whether the term of endearment referred to Mr Musgrave or the dog; but, since it was Diogenes who received the embrace, the verbal caress might have been intended for the man. Peggy stood up, and turned to John Musgrave impulsively.

"What can I say," she cried, "what can I do to prove how grateful I am?"

"I don't think any proof of your gratitude is needed," he replied.

"Besides, there is no reason why you should feel grateful. In the first place, it was a small thing to do; and in the second, I have grown attached to the dog, and am glad of his company. My fireside would seem very solitary without him."

Peggy's bright face clouded.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, thinking of her plans for the resurrection of Diogenes. "Then you will want to keep him?"

He shook his head.

"I quite appreciate the fact that he is only a trust. When you are ready for him he will be more than glad to return."

"But," she protested, "that wouldn't be fair--to you."

Unwittingly Mr Musgrave had roused her sympathy by that reference to his solitary fireside. It seemed rather selfish to claim Diogenes when he had grown attached to the dog.

"It wouldn't be fair to you," he returned, "or to Diogenes, if I kept him. That was not a part of the contract."

"Was there any contract?" she asked, smiling. "I understood that you sacrificed your personal inclination in order to get Diogenes and me out of a hole. It was a hole, wasn't it?"

She laughed. It was easy to laugh now over the miseries of that morning, but it had been no laughing matter at the time. John Musgrave had rendered her an unforgettable service in rescuing her from that dilemma.

"It was a hole--yes," he admitted. He looked at her fixedly. "If, as you say, I sacrificed my inclination on that occasion, I have been adequately rewarded since; and so, you see, I can't look on the matter as one requiring thanks. I will keep Diogenes until you are quite ready for him; then you can come in and fetch him, as you do now--and not bring him back again."

While he spoke it was abruptly borne in on John Musgrave's consciousness that he would miss, besides Diogenes, these surreptitious visits of Peggy Annersley's to which he was growing accustomed, though he did not always see her when she slipped in at his back entrance; but when he purposely put himself in the way, as upon the present occasion, he felt increasingly obliged to Diogenes, and to the accident of circumstances that was responsible for bringing her there.

"I believe," Peggy said unexpectedly, "that I shall be rather sorry when that day comes. It's such fun sharing a jolly secret like this. There is a feeling of adventure... a sort of alliance of conspiracy. If Moresby only knew!"

If Moresby did not actually know, it suspected more than Miss Annersley guessed, and it was beginning to talk. Mr Musgrave's reputation, which had stood the test of years, was suddenly observed to be inclining dangerously, upsetting the popular belief in the rocklike foundations of its structural character; suggesting, indeed, the sandy nature of the soil which formed its basis. The best of servants will talk; and, save for Martha, Mr Musgrave's servants were not superior in this respect to any others. Miss Peggy Annersley's visits to Mr Musgrave's establishment were fairly generally known and discussed in the village.

"When I take Diogenes from you," Peggy added, "you will have to come and visit him. He'll feel hurt if you don't."

"I shall come," John Musgrave answered quietly, "often. After all, I have a certain right in the dog."

Peggy nodded.

"He's yours and mine," she rejoined, with a beautiful disregard for the fact that Diogenes was in reality Mr Chadwick's property. "He's really more yours than mine, because he would have had to go to strangers if you hadn't saved him, and then I should never have seen him again. It's rather amusing being joint owners in a dog. Do you remember telling me you didn't like dogs? I knew you must be mistaken."

"I am beginning to believe," he replied, "that that was only one of many mistaken ideas. It is, as a matter of fact, a mistake to express a decided opinion on any subject in which one is inexperienced."

Peggy glanced at him with newly-kindled interest, a little puzzled as well as pleased at his frank admission. Then meeting his gaze fully she abruptly lowered her own, and looked delightfully shy.

"I think," she said irrelevantly, "I'll take Diogenes for his walk."

Mr Musgrave stooped and unfastened the chain. There was no need for a lead when Diogenes went abroad with Peggy.

"Come with me," she said coaxingly, when they reached the gate, "as far as the second field. There are bulls in it."

Mr Musgrave thought it very proper that Peggy should be afraid of bulls; he therefore very willingly accompanied her for her protection.

And when the danger was past, having in mind that possibly the bulls would be still there when she returned from her walk, he suggested the advisability of his accompanying her all the way.

"Will you?" Peggy cried. "That will be nice. You are sure you don't mind?"

Mr Musgrave was very positive on this point. Indeed, he minded so little that when they met the vicar, and subsequently Miss Simpson, he experienced so little embarrassment in being seen in Miss Annersley's company that he felt rather pleased than disconcerted when these encounters sprang unexpectedly upon them. Mr John Musgrave was, in the light of Moresby tradition, "walking out."

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

Mr Errol, seated in his pleasant drawing-room scanning a newspaper while his wife occupied herself with some sewing in the twilight hour before the lamps were lighted, suddenly lowered his paper, and looked with surprised eyes towards the window, which he faced. For a moment he doubted the evidence of his senses. Had his eyesight been less keen and his mind less evenly balanced, he might have been deceived into believing that his imagination was playing him tricks; but, after the first moment of doubt, he realised that the amazing sight of Mr Musgrave peeping surreptitiously in through the window and almost immediately withdrawing with the guilty alacrity of a person caught in some unlawful act was no optical illusion, but a very astounding actuality.

He glanced at his wife to discover whether she had observed these unusual proceedings, and, finding that her attention was absorbed in her occupation, he rose quietly, and without saying anything to her went out to investigate matters. Why, in the name of mystery, should John Musgrave prowl about outside the house after the manner of a clumsy trespasser, instead of ringing the bell and stating his business in the ordinary way?

The vicar opened the front door and stepped out on the gravelled path, whereupon Mr Musgrave came quickly forward from his place of concealment, and, still looking nervous and painfully self-conscious, approached him.

"I am so glad you have come," he said. "I was not sure whether you saw me."

"Oh, I saw you," the vicar answered. "Anyone might have seen you. If it had not been yourself, I should have suspected a design on my spoons.

Why didn't you come in?"

"I wanted to see you alone--on a very private matter. I want your help."

The vicar looked faintly surprised. He had on occasions required John Musgrave's help, though not in any personal sense, but he could not remember in all their long acquaintance that John Musgrave had made a demand of this nature before. It puzzled him to think what form the request would take.

"Whatever the service may be, you can count it as promised," he said.

"Thank you," Mr Musgrave returned warmly. "I know I can rely both on your assistance and on your discretion. The fact is, Walter, I have a-- a--ahem! a note which I wish delivered to Miss Annersley by a trusty messenger. It must not reach any hand but her own, and--and I do not wish to send it by one of my servants. I would prefer that the messenger should be ignorant as to whom the note comes from."

"Won't the post serve?" the vicar asked, feeling strongly tempted to laugh.

"There isn't time for the post; she must have the note this evening."

"So imperative as all that!"

Walter Errol looked curiously at the perturbed Mr Musgrave and reflected awhile. Mr Musgrave filled in the pause by explaining the nature of the communication which he was so anxious that Miss Annersley should receive without delay. The explanation robbed the adventure of the quality of romance with which Walter Errol had been colouring it, and thereby detracted considerably from the interest of the enterprise.