Williams assented willingly enough. Everything that tended to the
discomfort of Reginald Henson filled him with a peculiar and
deep-seated pleasure.

"Very well, miss," he said, demurely. "And don't you hurry, miss. This is
a kind of job that calls for plenty of patience. And I'm really shocking
deaf tonight."

Williams retreated leisurely in the direction of the stables, but his
malady was not so distressing that he failed to hear a groan and a
snarling curse from Henson. Enid fled back along the track, where she
found Bell standing patiently with a dog's muzzle close to either knee.
His face was white and shining, otherwise he showed no signs of fear.
Enid laid a hand on the head of either dog, and they rolled like great
cats at her feet in the bushes.

"Now come swiftly," she whispered. "There is no time to be lost."

They were in the house at last, crossing the dusty floor, with the motes
dancing in the lamp-light, deadening their footsteps and muffling the
intense silence. Above the stillness rose the song from the drawing-room;
from without came the restless murmur of the dogs. Enid entered the
drawing-room, and Bell limped in behind her. The music immediately
ceased. As Enid glanced at her aunt she saw that the far-away look had
died from her eyes, that the sparkle and brightness of reason were there.
She had come out of the mist and the shadows for a time at any rate.

"Dr. Hatherly Bell to see you, aunt," Enid said, in a low tone.