drawing-room.

"I think I shall be better able to help you," he said, "if you will tell
me something about the dog first."

Even his accent in speaking had altered to a certain degree. The quiet,
dreary monotone in which he habitually spoke quickened a little under
his present excitement. As for Isabel, she was too deeply interested
in Tommie's welfare to suspect that she was being made the victim of a
stratagem. She left the door and returned to Hardyman with eager eyes.
"What can I tell you, sir?" she asked innocently.

Hardyman pressed his advantage without mercy.

"You can tell me what sort of dog he is?"

"Yes, sir."

"How old he is?"

"Yes, sir."

"What his name is?--what his temper is?--what his illness is? what
diseases his father and mother had?--what--"

Isabel's head began to turn giddy. "One thing at a time, sir!" she
interposed, with a gesture of entreaty. "The dog sleeps on my bed, and I
had a bad night with him, he disturbed me so, and I am afraid I am very
stupid this morning. His name is Tommie. We are obliged to call him by
it, because he won't answer to any other than the name he had when my