It was Bobby Burns.

The collie had suffered himself to be led indoors by the girl
whom he had never seen until that morning, and for whom, thus
far, he had formed no affection. But his wistful, deepset
dark eyes had followed Gavin Brice's receding form. He could
not believe this dear new friend meant to desert him. As
Brice did not stop, nor even look back, the collie waxed
doubtful. And he tugged to be free. Claire spoke gently to
him, a slight quiver in her own voice, her dark eyes, like
his, fixed upon the dwindling dark speck on the dusky white
road.

"No, Bobby!" she said, under her breath, as she petted the
restless head. "He won't come back. Let's forget all about
it. We both behaved foolishly, you and I, Bobby. And he
--well, let's just call him eccentric, and not think about
him any more."

She drew the reluctant collie into the house, and closed the
door. But, a few minutes later, when her back chanced to be
turned, and when a maid came into the room leaving the door
ajar, Bobby slipped out.

In another five seconds he was in the road, casting about for
Brice's trail. Finding it, he set off, at a hard gallop,
nostrils close to the ground. Having once been hit and
bruised, in puppyhood, by a motor car, the dog had a wholesome
respect for such rapid and ill-smelling vehicles. Thus, as he