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KING PELLINORE’S LITERARY MAGAZINE

A tired brown spaniel kept close at or apology when you arrived. One
their heels. Noiselessly they neared would think he had seen a ghost.”
the house, and then a hoarse young “I expect it was the spaniel,” said
voice chanted out of the dusk: “I said, the niece calmly; “he told me he had a
Bertie, why do you bound?” horror of dogs. He was once hunted
Framton grabbed wildly at his stick into a cemetery somewhere on the
and hat; the hall-door, the gravel- banks of the Ganges by a pack of pari-
drive, and the front gate were dimly- ah dogs, and had to spend the night in
noted stages in his headlong retreat. A a newly dug grave with the creatures
cyclist coming along the road had to snarling and grinning and foaming
run into the hedge to avoid an immi- just above him. Enough to make any-
nent collision. one lose their nerve.”
“Here we are, my dear,” said the Romance at short notice was her
bearer of the white mackintosh, com- speciality.
ing in through the window; “fairly
muddy, but most of it’s dry. Who was
that who bolted out as we came up?”
“A most extraordinary man, a Mr.
Nuttel,” said Mrs. Sappleton; “could
only talk about his illnesses, and
dashed off without a word of good-bye

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