The Black Poodle

I have set myself the task of telling, in the course of this story, without leaving out or changing a single detail, the most painful and humiliating episode of my life. I do this not because it will give me the slightest pleasure, but simply because it offers me a chance to defend myself that has so far been completely denied to me. As a general rule, I am well aware that publishing a lengthy explanation of one's conduct in any questionable affair is not the best way to recover a lost reputation; but in my own case, there is one person to whom I will never again be allowed to justify myself by word of mouth—even if I found myself able to attempt it.

And since she could not possibly think worse of me than she does at present, I write this, knowing it can do me no harm, and faintly hoping that it may come to her notice and make her wonder whether I am really as unscrupulous a villain and as consummate a hypocrite as I have been forced to appear in her eyes. The bare chance of such a result makes me completely indifferent to everything else; I cheerfully expose to the ridicule of the entire reading public the story of my weakness and my shame, since by doing so I may possibly rehabilitate myself a little in the good opinion of one person. Having said so much, I will begin my confession without further delay.

My name is Algernon Weatherhead, and I may add that I work in one of the government departments; I am an only son, and I live at home with my mother. We had had a house in Hammersmith until just before the time of this story, when, our lease expiring, my mother decided that my health needed country air after the day's work, and so we took a 'desirable villa residence' on one of the many new building estates that have recently sprung up in such numbers in the home counties. We have called it 'Wistaria Villa.' It is a pretty little place, the last in a row of detached villas, each with its tiny rustic carriage gate and gravel sweep in front, and a lawn big enough for a tennis court behind, lining the road that leads over the hill to the railway station.

I could certainly have wished that our landlord, shortly after giving us the agreement, could have found some other place to hang himself than one of our attics, for the result was that a housemaid left us in violent hysterics about every two months, having learned the tragedy from the tradespeople, and naturally 'seen a something' immediately afterwards. Still, it is a pleasant house, and I can now almost forgive the landlord for what I will always consider an act of gross selfishness on his part.

In the country, even so near town, a next-door neighbor is something more than a mere numeral; he is a possible acquaintance, who will at least consider a newcomer worth the experiment of a call. I soon learned that 'Shuturgarden,' the house next to ours, was occupied by a Colonel Currie, a retired Indian officer; and often, as across the low boundary wall I caught a glimpse of a graceful girlish figure flitting among the rose bushes in the neighboring garden, I would lose myself in pleasant anticipation of a time, not far off, when the wall separating us would be (metaphorically) leveled. I remember—ah, how vividly!—the thrill of excitement with which I heard from my mother, on returning from town one evening, that the Curries had called, and seemed disposed to be all that was neighborly and kind.

I remember, too, the Sunday afternoon on which I returned their call—alone, as my mother had already done so during the week. I was standing on the steps of the Colonel's villa, waiting for the door to open, when I was startled by a furious snarling and yapping behind me, and, turning around, discovered a large poodle in the act of making for my legs.

He was a coal-black poodle, with half of his right ear missing, and absurd little thick moustaches at the end of his nose; he was shaved in the sham-lion fashion, which is considered, for some mysterious reason, to improve a poodle, but the barber had left various little tufts of hair that studded his haunches capriciously. I could not help being reminded, as I looked at him, of another black poodle that Faust entertained for a short time, with unhappy results, and I thought that a very moderate degree of incantation would be enough to bring the fiend out of this brute.

He made me intensely uncomfortable, for I am of a slightly nervous temperament, with a constitutional horror of dogs and a liability to attacks of diffidence when performing the ordinary social rites under the most favorable conditions, and certainly the consciousness that a strange and apparently savage dog was engaged in worrying the heels of my boots was the reverse of reassuring.

The Currie family received me with all possible kindness: 'So charmed to make your acquaintance, Mr. Weatherhead,' said Mrs. Currie, as I shook hands. 'I see,' she added pleasantly, 'you've brought the doggie in with you.' As a matter of fact, I had brought the doggie in at the ends of my coat-tails, but it was evidently no unusual occurrence for visitors to appear in this undignified manner, for she detached him quite as a matter of course, and as soon as I was sufficiently collected, we fell into conversation. I discovered that the Colonel and his wife were childless, and the slender willowy figure I had seen across the garden wall was that of Lilian Roseblade, their niece and adopted daughter.

She came into the room shortly afterwards, and I felt, as I went through the form of an introduction, that her sweet fresh face, shaded by soft masses of dusky brown hair, more than justified all the dreamy hopes and fancies with which I had looked forward to that moment. She talked to me in a pretty, confidential, appealing way, which I have heard her dearest friends criticize as childish and affected, but I thought then that her manner had an indescribable charm and fascination about it, and the memory of it makes my heart ache now with a pang that is not all pain.

Even before the Colonel made his appearance, I had begun to see that my enemy, the poodle, held an exceptional position in that household. It was abundantly clear by the time I took my leave. He seemed to be the center of their domestic system, and even lovely Lilian revolved contentedly around him as a kind of satellite; he could do no wrong in his owners' eyes, his prejudices (and he was a narrow-minded animal) were rigorously respected, and all domestic arrangements were made with a primary view to his convenience. I may be wrong, but I cannot think that it is wise to put any poodle on such a pedestal. How this one in particular, as ordinary a quadruped as ever breathed, had managed to impose thus on his infatuated owners, I never could understand, but so it was—he even took up the chief part of the conversation, which after any lull seemed to turn to him by a sort of natural law.

I had to endure a long biographical sketch of him—what a society paper would call an 'anecdotal photo'—and each fresh anecdote seemed to me to show the depraved malice of the beast in a more glaring light, and make the doting admiration of the family all the more astounding.

'Did you tell Mr. Weatherhead, Lily, about Bingo' (Bingo was the poodle's preposterous name) 'and Tacks? No? Oh, I must tell him that—it'll make him laugh. Tacks is our gardener down in the village (d'ye know Tacks?). Well, Tacks was up here the other day, nailing up some trellis-work at the top of a ladder, and all the time there was Master Bingo sitting quietly at the foot of it watching, wouldn't leave it for anything. Tacks said he was quite company for him. Well, at last, when Tacks had finished and was coming down, what do you think that rascal there did? Just sneaked quietly up behind and nipped him in both calves and ran off. Been waiting for that the whole time! Ha, ha!—deep that, eh?' I agreed with an inward shudder that it was very deep, thinking privately that, if this was a sample of Bingo's usual treatment of the natives, it would be surprising if he didn't find himself deeper still before—probably just before—he died.

'Poor faithful old doggie!' murmured Mrs. Currie; 'he thought Tacks was a nasty burglar, didn't he? He wasn't going to see Master robbed, was he?' 'Capital house-dog, sir,' put in the Colonel. 'Gad, I shall never forget how he made poor Heavisides run for it the other day! Ever met Heavisides of the Bombay Fusiliers? Well, Heavisides was staying here, and the dog met him one morning as he was coming down from the bath-room. Didn't recognize him in pajamas and a dressing-gown, of course, and went for him. He kept poor old Heavisides outside the landing window on top of the cistern for a quarter of an hour, till I had to come and raise the siege!' Such were the stories of that abandoned dog's blundering ferocity to which I had to listen, while all the time the brute sat opposite me on the hearthrug, blinking at me from under his shaggy mane with his evil bleared eyes, and considering where he would have me when I rose to leave.

This was the beginning of an intimacy that soon dispensed with all ceremony. It was very pleasant to go in there after dinner, even to sit with the Colonel over his claret and hear more stories about Bingo, for afterwards I could go into the pretty drawing-room and take my tea from Lilian's hands, and listen while she played Schubert to us in the summer twilight. The poodle was always in the way, to be sure, but even his ugly black head seemed to lose some of its ugliness and ferocity when Lilian laid her pretty hand on it.

On the whole, I think the Currie family were well disposed towards me; the Colonel considered me a harmless specimen of the average eligible young man—which I certainly was—and Mrs. Currie showed me favor for my mother's sake, for whom she had taken a strong liking. As for Lilian, I believed I could see that she soon suspected the state of my feelings towards her and was not displeased by it. I looked forward with some hopefulness to a day when I could declare myself with no fear of being refused. But it was a serious obstacle in my path that I could not secure Bingo's good opinion on any terms. The family would often lament this themselves. 'You see,' Mrs. Currie would observe in apology, 'Bingo is a dog that does not attach himself easily to strangers'—though for that matter I thought he was unpleasantly ready to attach himself to me. I did try hard to conciliate him.

I brought him propitiatory buns—which was weak and ineffectual, as he ate them with avidity and hated me as bitterly as ever, for he had conceived from the first a profound contempt for me and a distrust that no blandishments of mine could remove. Looking back now, I am inclined to think it was a prophetic instinct that warned him of what was to come upon him through my instrumentality. Only his approval was needed to establish a firm footing for me with the Curries, and perhaps turn Lilian's wavering heart in my direction; but, though I courted that inflexible poodle with an assiduity I blush to remember, he remained obstinately hostile.

Still, day by day, Lilian's treatment of me grew more encouraging; day by day I gained in the esteem of her uncle and aunt; I began to hope that soon I would be able to disregard canine influence altogether. Now there was one inconvenience about our villa (apart from its flavor of suicide) that I must mention here. By common consent, all the cats of the neighborhood had chosen our garden for their evening meetings. I suspect that a tortoiseshell kitchen cat of ours must have been a sort of leader of local feline society—I know she was 'at home,' with music and recitations, on most evenings. My poor mother found that this interfered with her after-dinner nap, and no wonder, for if a troop of ghosts had been 'shrieking and squealing,' as Calpurnia puts it, in our back garden, or if it had been turned into a nursery for goblin infants in the agonies of teething, the noise could not possibly have been more unearthly.

We looked for some way to get rid of the nuisance: there was poison, of course, but we thought it would look suspicious, and might even lead to legal difficulties, if each dawn were to discover an assortment of cats dying in hideous convulsions in various parts of the same garden. Firearms, too, were open to objection, and would hardly help my mother's sleep, so for a while we were at a loss for a remedy. At last, one day, walking down the Strand, I happened to see (in an evil hour) what struck me as just the thing—it was an air-gun of superior construction displayed in a gunsmith's window. I went in at once, bought it, and took it home in triumph; it would be noiseless, and would reduce the local average of cats without scandal—one or two examples, and feline fashion would soon move to a more secluded spot.

I lost no time in putting this to the test. That very evening I lay in wait after dusk at the study window, protecting my mother's rest. As soon as I heard the long-drawn wail, the preliminary sputter, and the wild stampede that followed, I let fly in the direction of the sound. I suppose I must have something of the national sporting instinct in me, for my blood was tingling with excitement; but the feline constitution absorbs lead without serious inconvenience, and I was beginning to fear that I would have no trophy to prove my marksmanship. But all at once I made out a dark indistinct shape slinking in from behind the bushes.

I waited until it crossed a strip of light streaming from the back kitchen below me, then took careful aim and pulled the trigger. This time at least I had not failed—there was a muffled yelp, a rustle—and then silence. I ran out with the calm pride of successful revenge to bring in the body of my victim, and under a laurel I found, not some predatory tomcat, but (as the discerning reader will no doubt have guessed long ago) the quivering body of the Colonel's black poodle!

I intend to set down here the exact unvarnished truth, and I confess that at first, when I knew what I had done, I was not sorry. I had never meant to do it, but I felt no regret. I even laughed—madman that I was—at the thought that this was the end of Bingo, at any rate; that obstacle was removed, my weary task of conciliation was over forever. But soon the reaction came; I realized the enormous nature of my deed, and shuddered. I had done something that could banish me from Lilian's side forever! All unknowingly, I had killed a kind of sacred animal, the creature around which the Currie household had entwined their deepest affections! How was I to break it to them? Should I send Bingo in with a card tied to his neck and my regrets and compliments? That was too much like a gift of game. Should I carry him in myself?

I could wrap him in the finest crape, I would put on mourning for him—the Curries would hardly consider a candle and a white sheet, or sackcloth and ashes, too much—but I couldn't grovel quite so low. I wondered what the Colonel would say. Simple and hearty as a rule, he had a hot temper when roused, and it made me ill to think of it. And, worse, would Lilian believe it was really an accident? They knew how much I wanted the deceased poodle silenced—would they believe the simple truth? I swore that they should believe me. My genuine remorse and my complete openness would speak strongly for me. I would choose a favorable time for my confession; that very evening I would tell all.

Still, I shrank from the duty before me, and as I knelt sorrowfully by the dead form and respectfully straightened his stiffening limbs, I thought it was unfair of fate to place a well-meaning man, whose nerves were not of iron, in such a position.

Then, to my horror, I heard a familiar ringing tread on the road outside, and smelled the peculiar fragrance of a Burmese cheroot. It was the Colonel himself, who had been taking the doomed Bingo for his usual evening run. I don't know exactly how it happened, but a sudden panic came over me. I held my breath and tried to crouch down hidden behind the laurels; but he had seen me and came over at once to speak across the hedge. He stood there, not two yards from his favorite's body! Fortunately, it was unusually dark that evening. 'Ha, there you are, eh?' he began heartily; 'don't rise, my boy, don't rise.' I was trying to put myself in front of the poodle, and did not rise—at least, only my hair did. 'You're out late, aren't you?' he went on; 'laying out your garden, eh?' I couldn't tell him I was laying out his poodle! My voice shook as, with a guilty confusion hidden by the dusk, I said it was a fine evening—which it was not.

'Cloudy, sir,' said the Colonel, 'cloudy—rain before morning, I think. By the way, have you seen anything of my Bingo in here?' This was the turning point. What I ought to have done was to say mournfully, 'Yes, I'm sorry to say I've had a most unfortunate accident with him—here he is—the fact is, I'm afraid I've shot him!' But I couldn't. I could have told him at my own time, in a prepared form of words—but not then. I felt I had to use all my wits to gain time and fend off his questions.

'Why,' I said with a leaden airiness, 'he hasn't given you the slip, has he?' 'Never did such a thing in his life!' said the Colonel, warmly; 'he rushed off after a rat or a frog or something a few minutes ago, and as I stopped to light another cheroot I lost sight of him. I thought I saw him slip in under your gate, but I've been calling him from the front there and he won't come out.' No, and he never would come out again. But I couldn't tell the Colonel that just yet. I stalled again: 'If,' I said unsteadily, 'if he had slipped in under the gate, I should have seen him. Perhaps he took it into his head to run home?' 'Oh, I shall find him on the doorstep, I expect, the knowing old scamp! Why, what d'ye think was the last thing he did, now?'

I could have given him the latest news, but I didn't dare. However, it was altogether too ghastly to kneel there and laugh at anecdotes of Bingo told over Bingo's dead body; I couldn't stand that! 'Listen,' I said suddenly, 'wasn't that his bark? There again; it seems to come from the front of your house, don't you think?' 'Well,' said the Colonel, 'I'll go and fasten him up before he's off again. How your teeth are chattering—you've caught a chill, man—go indoors at once, and if you feel up to it, look in half an hour later, about grog time, and I'll tell you all about it. Compliments to your mother. Don't forget—about grog time!'

I had got rid of him at last, and I wiped my forehead, gasping with relief. I would go round in half an hour, and then I would be prepared to make my sad announcement. For, even then, I never thought of any other course, until suddenly it struck me with terrifying clarity that my miserable evasions by the hedge had made it impossible to tell the truth! I hadn't told a direct lie, to be sure, but I had given the Colonel the impression that I had denied seeing the dog. Many people can ease their conscience by thinking that, whatever effect their words may have, they managed to avoid an outright lie. I never quite understood where the moral distinction lay, but there is that feeling—I have it myself.

Unfortunately, prevarication has this drawback: if the truth ever comes out, the prevaricator is in just as bad a position as if he had lied outrageously, and pointing out that his words contained no absolute falsehood will seldom restore confidence. I might, of course, still tell the Colonel of my accident and let him assume it had happened after our conversation, but the poodle was fast becoming cold and stiff, and they would probably figure out the real time. And then Lilian would hear that I had told her uncle lies over the dead body of their cherished Bingo—an act that in her eyes would seem abominable desecration, unspeakable sacrilege! If it had been hard before to get her to accept a bloodstained hand, it would be impossible after that.

No, I had crossed the Rubicon; I was cut off forever from the straightforward path; that one moment of hesitation had sealed my course in spite of myself—I had to go on now and keep up the deception at all costs.

It was bitter. I had always tried to preserve as many of the moral principles instilled in me as can be conveniently kept in this grasping world, and I took pride in the fact that, by and large, I had never been guilty of an unmistakable lie. But from now on, if I meant to win Lilian, that boast would have to be abandoned forever! I would have to lie with all my might, without limit or scruple, to dissemble constantly, and 'wear a mask,' as the poet Bunn beautifully expressed it long ago, 'over my hollow heart.' I felt all this keenly—I didn't think it was right—but what was I to do? After thinking this out very carefully, I decided that my only course was to bury the poor animal where he had fallen and say nothing about it. With some vague idea of caution, I first took off the silver collar he wore, and then hastily buried him with a garden trowel, managing to remove all traces of the disaster.

I fancy I felt a certain relief knowing that there would now be no need to tell my pitiful story and risk losing my neighbors' esteem. In time, I thought, I would plant a rose bush over his remains, and some day, when Lilian and I, in the noontide of our domestic bliss, stood before it admiring its creamy luxuriance, I might (perhaps) find the courage to confess that the bush owed some of that luxuriance to the long-lost Bingo. There was a touch of poetry in that idea that lightened my gloom for the moment.

I need scarcely say that I did not go round to Shuturgarden that evening. I wasn't hardened enough for that yet—my manner might give me away—so I very sensibly stayed home. But that night my sleep was broken by terrible dreams. I was forever trying to bury a large gaunt poodle that kept rising through the damp soil as fast as I covered him. Lilian and I were engaged, and we were in church together on Sunday, and the poodle, resisting all attempts to expel him, forbade our banns with ghostly barks. It was our wedding day, and at the crucial moment the poodle leaped between us and swallowed the ring. Or we were at the wedding breakfast, and Bingo, a grizzly black skeleton with fiery eyes, sat on the cake and would not let Lilian cut it.

Even the rose-bush fantasy came back in distorted form—the bush grew, and every blossom contained a miniature Bingo that barked; and as I woke, I was desperately trying to convince the Colonel they were ordinary dog-roses.

I went up to the office the next day with my dark secret gnawing at my heart, and whatever I did, the ghost of the murdered poodle rose before me. For two days after that I dared not go near the Curries, until finally one evening after dinner I forced myself to call, feeling that it was no longer safe to stay away. My conscience smote me as I went in. I tried to put on a casual, easy demeanor, but it was such a dismal failure that it was lucky they were too absorbed to notice. I had never seen a family so stricken by a domestic misfortune as the group I found in the drawing-room, making a dejected pretense of reading or sewing. We talked at first—and hollow talk it was—about indifferent subjects, until I could bear it no longer and plunged into the danger. 'I don't see the dog,' I began. 'I suppose you—you found him all right the other evening, Colonel?'

I wondered as I spoke whether they would catch the break in my voice, but they didn't. 'Why, the fact is,' said the Colonel, heavily, gnawing his gray mustache, 'we've not heard anything of him since; he's—he's run off!' 'Gone, Mr. Weatherhead; gone without a word!' said Mrs. Currie, plaintively, as if she thought the dog might at least have left an address. 'I wouldn't have believed it of him,' said the Colonel. 'It has completely knocked me over. Haven't been so cut up for years—the ungrateful rascal!' 'Oh, Uncle!' pleaded Lilian, 'don't talk like that; perhaps Bingo couldn't help it—perhaps someone has s-s-shot him!' 'Shot!' cried the Colonel, angrily. 'By heaven! if I thought there was a villain on earth capable of shooting that poor innocent dog, I'd—Why should they shoot him, Lilian? Tell me that! I—I hope you won't let me hear you talk like that again. You don't think he's shot, do you, Weatherhead?'

I said—Heaven forgive me!—that I thought it highly improbable. 'He's not dead!' cried Mrs. Currie. 'If he were dead, I should know it somehow—I'm sure I would! But I'm certain he's alive. Only last night I had such a beautiful dream about him.

I thought he came back to us, Mr. Weatherhead, driving up in a hansom cab, and he was just the same as ever—only he wore blue spectacles, and the shaved parts of him were painted a bright red. And I woke up with joy—so, you know, it's sure to come true!'

It will be easy to understand the torture of conversations like these for me, and how I hated myself as I sympathized and spoke hopeful words about the dog's return, when I knew all the time he was lying buried in my garden. But I accepted it as part of my punishment and bore it without complaint; in fact, practice made me an expert at consolation—I believe I really was a great comfort to them. I had hoped that they would soon get over the first bitterness of their loss and that Bingo would be replaced, then forgotten, in the usual way; but there seemed to be no sign of that. The poor Colonel was plainly fretting himself ill; he wandered about forlornly, advertising, searching, and interviewing people, all to no purpose, and it told on him. He was more like a man whose only son and heir had been kidnapped than an Anglo-Indian officer who had lost a poodle.

I had to feign the liveliest interest in all his inquiries and expeditions, and to listen to and echo the most extravagant praises of the departed, and the strain of so much deception finally made me almost as ill as the Colonel.

I couldn't help noticing that Lilian was not nearly so impressed by my elaborate concern as her relatives; at times I caught an incredulous look in her frank brown eyes that made me very uneasy. Little by little, a gap widened between us, until in despair I decided to find out the worst before it became too late to speak at all. I chose a Sunday evening as we were walking across the green from church in the golden dusk, and then I dared to tell her of my love. She listened to me, visibly agitated. At last she murmured that it couldn't be, unless—no, it could never be now. 'Unless what?' I asked. 'Lilian—Miss Roseblade, something has come between us lately; won't you tell me what it is?' 'Do you really want to know?' she said, looking up at me through her tears. 'Then I'll tell you: it—it's Bingo!' I started back, overwhelmed. Did she know everything? If not, how much did she suspect? I had to find out at once. 'What about Bingo?'

I managed to say, my tongue dry. 'You never loved him when he was here,' she sobbed. 'You know you didn't!' I was relieved to find it was no worse. 'No,' I said candidly, 'I did not love Bingo. Bingo didn't love me, Lilian; he was always looking for a chance to nip me somewhere. Surely you won't hold that against me!' 'Not for that,' she said; 'only, why do you pretend to be so fond of him now, and so anxious to get him back? Uncle John believes you, but I don't. I can see that you wouldn't be glad to find him. You could find him easily if you wanted to!' 'What do you mean, Lilian?' I said hoarsely. 'How could I find him?' Again I feared the worst. 'You're in a government office,' cried Lilian, 'and if you only chose, you could easily get the Government to find Bingo! What's the use of Government if it can't do that? Mr. Travers would have found him long ago if I'd asked him!'

Lilian had never been so childish and unreasonable before, and yet I loved her more madly than ever; but I didn't like that reference to Travers, a rising barrister who lived with his sister in a pretty cottage near the station and had shown signs of being attracted to Lilian. He was away on circuit just then, luckily, but even he would have found it difficult to find Bingo—there was comfort in that. 'You know that's not fair, Lilian,' I observed. 'But just tell me what you want me to do.'

'Bring back Bingo!' she said. 'Bring back Bingo!' I cried in horror. 'But suppose I can't—suppose he's out of the country, or dead, what then, Lilian?' 'I can't help it,' she said, 'but I don't believe he is out of the country or dead. And while I see you pretending to Uncle that you cared terribly about him, and continuing to do nothing at all, it makes me think you're not quite—quite sincere! And I couldn't possibly marry anyone while I thought that of him. And I shall always feel that way unless you find Bingo!' It was useless to argue; I knew Lilian by then. With her pretty, caressing manner she combined a latent stubbornness that it was hopeless to try to shake. I feared, too, that she was not yet sure whether she cared for me, and that this demand was a way to gain time. I left her with a heavy heart. Unless I proved my worth by bringing back Bingo very soon, Travers might well win. And Bingo was dead!

Still, I took courage. I thought that perhaps, if I could show Lilian through earnest efforts that I was truly doing everything in my power to find the poodle, she might soften in time and not insist on his actual return. So, partly for that purpose and partly to appease the remorse that now revived and stung me more deeply, I undertook long and weary expeditions after office hours. I spent many pounds on advertisements; I examined dogs of every size, color, and breed, and of course I made sure to keep Lilian informed of each failure. But her heart was not touched; she remained firm. If I continued like that, she told me, I was certain to find Bingo one day—then, but not before, would her doubts be put to rest.

One day, as I was walking through the rather squalid district between Bow Street and High Holborn, I saw in a small theatrical costumier's window a handbill stating that a black poodle had 'followed a gentleman' on a certain date, and if not claimed and the finder compensated before a set time, it would be sold to cover expenses. I went in and got a copy of the bill to show Lilian, and although by then I hardly dared to look a poodle in the face, I decided to go to the address given and see the animal, simply so I could tell Lilian I had done so. The gentleman whom the dog had so unaccountably followed was a certain Mr. William Blagg, who kept a little shop near Endell Street and called himself a bird-fancier, though I wouldn't have credited him with the necessary imagination. He was an evil-browed ruffian in a fur cap, with a broad broken nose and little shifting red eyes.

After I had explained my purpose, he led me through a horrible little den stacked with piles of wooden, wire, and wicker cages, each quivering with restless, chirping life, and then out into a backyard containing a few rotten old kennels and tubs. 'That there's him,' he said, jerking his thumb toward the farthest tub. 'Followed me all the way home from Kensington Gardens, he did. Come out, will you?'

And out of the tub crawled slowly, with a snuffling whimper and a rattle of its chain, the very dog I had slain a few evenings before! At least, so I thought for a moment, and felt as if I had seen a ghost. The resemblance was exact—in size, in every detail, even to the little tufts of hair on its hindquarters, even to the missing half ear; this dog might have been the double of the deceased Bingo. I suppose, after all, one black poodle looks very like any other black poodle of the same size, but the likeness startled me. I think it was then that the idea struck me: here was a miraculous chance to win the sweetest girl in the world and, at the same time, to atone for my wrong by bringing joy back to Shuturgarden. It would only require a little boldness; one last deception, and I could return to honesty forever.

Almost without thinking, when my guide turned and asked, 'Is that there dog yours?' I said hurriedly, 'Yes, yes—that's the dog I want, that—that's Bingo!' 'He don't seem to be putting himself out about seeing you again,' observed Mr. Blagg as the poodle studied me with calm interest. 'Oh, he's not exactly my dog, you see,' I said, 'he belongs to a friend of mine!' He gave me a quick, furtive glance. 'Then maybe you're mistaken about him,' he said, 'and I can't take any risks. I was going down to the country this very evening to see a party as lives at Wistaria Villa—he's been advertising about a black poodle, he has!' 'But look here,' I said, 'that's me.' He gave me an odd look. 'No offense, you know, guv'nor,' he said, 'but I'd like some proof of that before I part with a valuable dog like this here!' 'Well,' I said, 'here's one of my cards; will that do?'

He took it and examined it with exaggerated caution, but I could see he suspected that if I had lost a dog at all, it was not this particular dog. 'Ah,' he said, pocketing the card, 'if I part with him to you, I must be cleared of all risk. I can't afford to get into trouble over any mistakes. Unless you want to leave him for a day or two, you'll have to pay accordingly, you see.' I was eager to get the whole business over with as quickly as possible. I didn't care what I paid—Lilian was worth any expense! I assured him I had no doubt the dog was mine, offered a generous sum, and insisted on taking him at once. And so we settled. I paid him an extortionate price and left with a duplicate poodle, a canine counterfeit that I hoped to pass off at Shuturgarden as the long-lost Bingo. I knew it was wrong—it even bordered on dog-stealing—but I was desperate.

I saw Lilian slipping away, and I knew nothing less than this would bring her back; I was sorely tempted, I had already gone far down that road, and it was the old story of being hanged for a sheep. So I gave in.

Surely some readers will be generous enough to consider my extraordinary situation and mix a little pity with their contempt. That evening I dined in town and brought my purchase home by a late train. His demeanor was grave and extremely respectable; he was not the sort of animal to commit a blatant indiscretion; he was gentle and tractable, a pleasant contrast to the original. Still, it may have been the workings of an uneasy conscience, but I couldn't help fancying I saw a knowing look in his eyes, as if he were aware he was being asked to take part in a fraud, and rather resented it. If only he would cooperate! Fortunately, he was such a perfect replica of Bingo's outward appearance that the risk of detection was really quite small. When I got him home, I put Bingo's silver collar around his neck—pleased with my foresight in keeping it—and took him to see my mother.

She accepted him at face value without a second thought; that encouraged me, though it wasn't decisive, for the false poodle would have to pass the scrutiny of those who knew every hair on the genuine Bingo. Nothing would have induced me to face the ordeal of personally returning him to the Curries. We fed him and tied him up on the lawn, where he howled miserably all night and buried bones.

The next morning I wrote a note to Mrs. Currie expressing my delight at being able to restore the lost pet, and another to Lilian with only the words, 'Will you believe now that I am sincere?' Then I tied both notes around the poodle's neck and dropped him over the wall into the Colonel's garden just before leaving to catch my train to town.

I had an anxious walk home from the station that evening; I took the longer way, trembling the whole time for fear of meeting any of the Currie household, which I felt quite unequal to just then. I couldn't rest until I knew whether my deception had worked or whether the poodle I had trusted with my fate had betrayed me. But my suspense was happily ended as soon as I entered my mother's room. 'You can't think how delighted those poor Curries were to see Bingo again,' she said at once. 'And they said such charming things about you, Algy—Lilian especially. She seemed quite affected, poor child! And they wanted you to go round and dine there to be thanked tonight, but I persuaded them to come here instead. And they're bringing the dog to make friends. Oh, and I met Frank Travers; he's back from circuit again now, so I asked him too, to meet them!' I breathed a deep sigh of relief. I had played a desperate game—but I had won!

I could have wished, of course, that my mother hadn't thought of bringing Travers on this of all evenings—but I felt I could defy him now.

The Colonel and his family were the first to arrive; he and his wife were so effusively grateful that they made me quite uncomfortable. Lilian greeted me with downcast eyes and a barely perceptible blush, but she said nothing just then. Five minutes later, when we were alone together in the conservatory, where I had brought her on the pretext of showing a new begonia, she touched my arm and whispered, almost shyly, 'Mr. Weatherhead—Algernon! Can you ever forgive me for being so cruel and unjust to you?' And I replied that, on the whole, I could. We were not in that conservatory long, but before we left, beautiful Lilian Roseblade had agreed to make my life happy. When we re-entered the drawing-room, we found Frank Travers, who had been told the story of the dog's recovery, and I saw his jaw drop as he looked at us, catching the triumphant smile that no doubt adorned my face and the tender, dreamy look in Lilian's soft eyes.

Poor Travers, I felt sorry for him, though I wasn't fond of him. He was a good example of the rising young common-law barrister: tall, not bad-looking, with keen dark eyes, black whiskers, and the mobile forensic mouth that can express every shade of feeling from deferential agreement to cynical disbelief. He also had an endless flow of conversation, decidedly agreeable, if a bit too deliberately so, and had been a dangerous rival.

But all that was over now—he saw it himself at once, and during dinner he sank into a gloomy silence, gazing pathetically at Lilian and sighing almost obtrusively between courses. His stream of small talk seemed to have been cut off at the main.

'You've done a kind thing, Weatherhead,' said the Colonel. 'I can't tell you what that dog means to me and how I missed the poor beast. I had given up all hope of ever seeing him again, and all the time there was Weatherhead, Mr. Travers, quietly searching all London until he found him! I shan't forget it. It shows a truly kind heart.' I could tell from Travers's expression that he was telling himself he could have found fifty Bingos in half the time—if only he'd thought of it. He smiled a melancholy agreement to everything the Colonel said, and then began studying me with a distinctly condescending air. 'You can't think,' I heard Mrs. Currie say to my mother, 'how touching it was to see poor dear Bingo's emotion at seeing all his old familiar objects again! He went up and sniffed each one in turn, plainly recognizing everything. And he was quite put out to find we had moved his favorite ottoman from the drawing-room.

But he's so penitent too, and so ashamed of having run away; he hardly dares to come when John calls him, and he kept under a chair in the hall all morning—he wouldn't come in here either, so we had to leave him in your garden.' 'He's been dreadfully out of spirits all day,' said Lilian; 'he hasn't bitten any of the tradespeople.' 'Oh, he's all right, the rascal!' said the Colonel cheerfully. 'He'll be chasing cats again as well as ever in a day or two.' 'Ah, those cats!' said my poor innocent mother. 'Algy, you haven't tried the air-gun on them again lately, have you? They're worse than ever.' I asked the Colonel to pass the claret; Travers laughed for the first time. 'That's a good idea,' he said in that carrying, 'bar-mess' voice of his. 'An air-gun for cats, ha, ha! Good bags, eh, Weatherhead?' I said I did make very good bags, and felt myself turning red. 'Oh, Algy is an excellent shot—quite a sportsman,' said my mother.

'I remember, long ago, when we lived in Hammersmith, he had a pistol, and he used to put crumbs in the garden for the sparrows and shoot at them from the pantry window; he often hit one.' 'Well,' said the Colonel, not overly impressed, 'don't go rolling over our Bingo by mistake, you know, Weatherhead, my boy. Not but what you've earned the right after this—only don't. I wouldn't go through it again for anything.' 'If you won't have any more wine,' I said hurriedly to the Colonel and Travers, 'suppose we all go outside and have our coffee on the lawn? It'll be cooler there.' For it was getting very hot inside, I thought.

I left Travers to entertain the ladies—he couldn't do any more harm now—and, taking the Colonel aside, I used the opportunity, as we strolled along the garden path, to ask his consent to my engagement to Lilian. He agreed heartily. 'There's not a man in England,' he said, 'I'd rather see her married to after today. You're a quiet, steady young fellow, and you've a good kind heart. As for money, that's neither here nor there; Lilian won't come to you empty-handed, you know. But really, my boy, you can't imagine what it means to my poor wife and me to see that dog. Why, bless my soul, look at him now! What's the matter with him, eh?'

To my utter horror, I saw that miserable poodle, after begging unnoticed at the tea table for a while, had retired to an open space in front of us, where he was now standing on his head. We all gathered round and examined the creature in amazement as he balanced there, gravely upside down. 'Good gracious, John,' cried Mrs. Currie, 'I never saw Bingo do anything like that before in his life!' 'Very odd,' said the Colonel, adjusting his glasses. 'Never taught him that.' 'I'll tell you what I think,' I suggested wildly. 'He's always been a sensitive, excitable animal, and perhaps the sudden joy of his return has gone to his head—upset him, you know.' They seemed willing to accept that explanation, and indeed I believe they would have credited Bingo with every possible degree of sensitivity; but I felt that if this unfortunate animal had many more such talents, I was done for, because the real Bingo had never been a clever dog.

'Very strange,' said Travers thoughtfully, as the dog righted himself, 'but I always thought it was the right ear that Bingo had lost.' 'So it is, isn't it?' said the Colonel. 'No, left, eh? Well, I thought it was the right.' My heart almost stopped with fear—I had completely forgotten that detail. I hurried to settle it. 'Oh, it was the left,' I said positively, 'I know because I remember thinking at the time how odd it was that it was the left ear, not the right.' I reminded myself that this must definitely be my last lie. 'Why odd?' asked Frank Travers with his most irritating Socratic manner. 'My dear fellow, I can't tell you,' I said impatiently. 'Everything seems odd if you think about it hard enough.'

'Algernon,' said Lilian later, 'will you tell Aunt Mary and Mr. Travers, and me, how you came to find Bingo? Mr. Travers is eager to hear all about it.' I couldn't very well refuse. I sat down and told my story, all my own way. I painted Blagg perhaps a bit larger and blacker than life and described an exciting scene in which I recognized Bingo in the streets by his collar and claimed him on the spot, in spite of all opposition. I had the immense pleasure of seeing Travers grinding his teeth with envy as I went on, and feeling Lilian's soft, slender hand slip quietly into mine as I told my tale in the twilight. Just as I reached the climax, we heard the poodle barking furiously at the hedge separating my garden from the road. 'There's a foreign-looking man staring over the hedge,' said Lilian. 'Bingo always did hate foreigners.'

There certainly was a dark-skinned man there, and though I had no reason then, my heart sank at the sight of him. 'Don't be alarmed, sir,' cried the Colonel; 'the dog won't bite you—unless there's a hole in the hedge somewhere.' The stranger took off his small straw hat with a flourish. 'Ah, I am not afraid,' he said, his accent marking him as French, 'he is not angry at me. May I ask, is it permitted to speak with Mr. Weatherhead?' I knew I must deal with this man alone, fearing the worst, so, asking the others to excuse me, I went over to the hedge and faced him with the desperate calm of the condemned.

He was short and stout, with blue jowls, sparkling black eyes, and a lively, walnut-colored face; he wore a short black alpaca coat and a large white cravat with a huge oval malachite brooch at its center—I mention this because I found myself staring at it mechanically during our conversation. 'My name is Weatherhead,' I began, feeling like a pickpocket caught in the act. 'Can I help you?' 'Very much so,' he said emphatically.

'You can return to me the poodle I see there!'

Nemesis had arrived at last, in the form of a rival claimant. I staggered for a moment, then said, 'Oh, I think you're mistaken—that dog isn't mine.' 'I know,' he said. 'There has been a little mistake. If the dog is not yours, then you give him back to me, eh?' 'I tell you,' I said, 'that poodle belongs to the gentleman over there,' and I pointed to the Colonel, thinking it best to bring him in at once. 'You are wrong,' he insisted. 'The poodle is mine! And I was told to come to you—this card has your name.' He held out the fatal card I had foolishly given Blagg to prove my identity. Now I understood everything: the old villain had betrayed me, and to collect a double reward had sent the real owner after me. I decided to call the Colonel immediately and try to brazen it out with his firm belief in the dog.

'What's all this?' said the Colonel, bustling over, followed by the others. The Frenchman raised his hat again. 'I do not wish to cause trouble,' he began, 'but there is a little mistake. I swear I see my own poodle in your garden. When I appeal to this gentleman to return him, he refers me to you.' 'You must allow me to know my own dog, sir,' said the Colonel. 'I've had him since he was a pup. Bingo, old boy, you know your master, don't you?' But the brute ignored him and began leaping frantically at the hedge in an effort to reach the Frenchman. No Solomon was needed to decide who owned him! 'I tell you, you have got the wrong poodle—this is my own dog, my Azor! He remembers me, you see? I lost him three or four days ago. I saw a notice that he had been found, and when I went to the address, they told me, "Oh, he has been claimed; he went with a stranger who advertised."

They showed me the poster; I came here, and I see my poodle in the garden before me!'

'But look here,' said the Colonel impatiently, 'that's all very well, but how can you prove it? I give you my word the dog is mine! You'll have to do better than that, eh, Travers?' 'Yes,' said Travers, in his legal manner, 'mere assertion is no proof; it's your word against his.' 'Listen a moment,' said the Frenchman. 'Was your poodle highly trained—did he have talents, a dog with tricks, eh?' 'No, he's not,' said the Colonel. 'I don't like to see dogs taught to play the fool—there's none of that nonsense about him, sir!' 'Ah, then watch him closely. Azor, mon chou, danse donc un peu!' And when the foreigner whistled a lively tune, the infernal poodle rose on his hind legs and danced solemnly halfway around the garden! We watched with dismay. 'Why, dash it all!' cried the disgusted Colonel. 'He's dancing like a damned mountebank! But he's my Bingo for all that!' 'You are not convinced? You shall see more. Azor, ici!

Pour Bismarck, Azor!' (The poodle barked fiercely.) 'Pour Gambetta!' (He wagged his tail and pranced with joy.) 'Meurs pour la Patrie!' —and the overly accomplished animal rolled over as if dead in battle. 'Where could Bingo have learned so much French!' cried Lilian, incredulous. 'Or so much French history?' added that serpent Travers. 'Shall I command him to jump, or to turn a somersault?' asked the obliging Frenchman. 'We've seen that, thank you,' said the Colonel gloomily. 'Upon my word, I don't know what to think. It can't be that that's not my Bingo—I'll never believe it!'

I tried one last desperate move. 'Will you come around to the front?' I said to the Frenchman. 'I'll let you in, and we can discuss this quietly.' As we walked toward the front, I asked him eagerly how much he would take to drop his claim and let the Colonel think the poodle was his. He was furious; he considered himself insulted. With great emotion he told me the dog was the pride of his life (apparently it is the destiny of black poodles to serve as such priceless domestic comforts!), and he wouldn't part with him for twice his weight in gold. 'Consider,' he said, rejoining the others, 'this gentleman has offered me money for the dog! He admits it is mine, you see? Very well, then, there is no more to be said!' 'Why, Weatherhead, have you lost faith too, then?' asked the Colonel. I could see it was hopeless; all I wanted now was to get out as creditably as possible and get rid of the Frenchman.

'I'm sorry to say,' I replied, 'that I'm afraid I was deceived by the remarkable likeness. On reflection, I don't think this is Bingo.' 'What do you think, Travers?' the Colonel asked. 'Well, since you ask,' said Travers with unnecessary dryness, 'I never thought so.' 'Nor I,' said the Colonel. 'I thought all along that was never my Bingo. Why, Bingo would make two of that beast!' And Lilian and her aunt both chimed in that they'd had their doubts from the start. 'Then you permit me to take him?' said the Frenchman. 'Certainly,' said the Colonel, and after mutual apologies for the mistake, the man went off triumphantly, with the detestable poodle frisking behind him.

When he had gone, the Colonel put his hand kindly on my shoulder. 'Don't look so cut up, my boy,' he said. 'You did your best—there was a certain resemblance, to anyone who didn't know Bingo as we did.' Just then the Frenchman reappeared at the hedge. 'A thousand pardons,' he said, 'but I found this on my dog—it is not mine. Allow me to return it with many compliments.' It was Bingo's collar. Travers took it and brought it over. 'This was on the dog when you reclaimed him, didn't you say?' he asked me. One more lie—and I was so tired of lies! 'Y-yes,' I said reluctantly, 'that's right.' 'Very remarkable,' said Travers. 'That's the wrong poodle, no doubt about that, but when it's found, it's wearing the right dog's collar! Now how do you explain that?' 'My dear fellow,' I said impatiently, 'I'm not in the witness box. I can't explain it. It's—it's just a coincidence!'

'But look here, my dear Weatherhead,' argued Travers (whether sincerely or not, I could never tell), 'don't you see what an important clue this is? Here we have a dog that, as I understand, had a silver collar with his name on it when he disappeared. And soon after, we find that very collar on a different dog! We must follow this up; we must get to the bottom of it! With a clue like this, we're bound to find either the dog himself or what became of him. Just try to remember exactly what happened, there's a good fellow. This is just the sort of puzzle I enjoy!' It was not a kind of puzzle I enjoyed at all. 'You'll have to excuse me tonight, Travers,' I said uncomfortably.

'This is a sore subject for me, and I'm not feeling very well.' Just then I caught a glance of pity and trust from Lilian's sweet eyes, which lifted my spirits for the moment. 'We'll look into it tomorrow, Travers,' said the Colonel. 'And now—hullo! There's that confounded Frenchman again!'

And indeed he was, prancing back with a sly grin on his wrinkled face. 'Once again I must apologize,' he said. 'My poodle has permitted himself the grave indiscretion of making a very large hole at the bottom of your garden!' I assured him it didn't matter. 'Perhaps,' he replied, looking at me steadily through his keen, half-closed eyes, 'you will not say that when you see the hole. And you others, I say this: sometimes one loses something that is quite close all the time. It is very droll, eh? My word, ha, ha, ha!' He ambled off with a fiendish laugh that sent a chill down my spine. 'What the devil did he mean by that?' asked the Colonel, baffled. 'I don't know,' said Travers. 'Shall we go and inspect the hole?' But before they could move, I had already crept over to look, dreading that the Frenchman's last words had contained a hint I hadn't understood. It was still light enough to see something that made me nearly faint with horror.

That thrice-accursed poodle, which I had been mad enough to try to palm off on the Colonel, must have buried his supper the night before very near the spot where I had laid Bingo, and in digging for his bone had brought the remains of my victim to the surface! There lay the corpse, right on top of the excavation. Time had not improved its appearance—it was ghastly in the extreme—but it was still easy to recognize.

'It's an ordinary hole,' I gasped, stepping in front of it to block their view. 'Nothing in it—nothing at all!' 'Except one Algernon Weatherhead, Esquire,' whispered Travers in my ear with a joke. 'No, but seriously,' the Colonel persisted, coming closer, 'has the dog damaged any of your shrubs?' 'No, no!' I cried piteously. 'Quite the opposite. Let's all go inside now; it's getting cold!' 'Look, there is something uprooted,' said the Colonel, still approaching that fatal spot. 'Why, hello! What's that?' Lilian, at his side, gave a slight scream. 'Uncle,' she cried, 'it looks like—like Bingo!' The Colonel whirled on me. 'Do you hear?' he demanded, his voice choked. 'You hear what she says? Can't you speak out? Is that our Bingo?' At last I gave up. I only longed to be allowed to crawl away and hide.

'Yes,' I whispered, sinking onto a garden seat, 'yes... that's Bingo. An accident... I shot him... Quite unintentional.' There was a terrible outpouring of anger after that. They saw how I had deceived them and put the very worst interpretation on everything. Even now I writhe in memory at that scene—the Colonel's plain speaking, Lilian's passionate reproaches and contempt, and her aunt's speechless shock. I made no attempt to defend myself. I was perhaps not the complete villain they thought me, but I felt dully that I deserved it. Still, I don't feel obliged to set down their exact words here.

Travers had slipped away at the first opportunity, whether out of delicacy or for fear of bursting into inappropriate laughter, I cannot say. Soon after, the others came over to where I sat silent, head bowed, and bade me a cold, final farewell. And then, as the last glimpse of Lilian's white dress vanished down the path, I laid my head on the table among the coffee cups and sobbed like a child.

I took leave from work as soon as possible and went abroad. The morning after my return, while shaving, I noticed a small square marble tablet placed against the wall of the Colonel's garden. I fetched my opera glass and read—and pleasant reading it was—the following inscription: 'IN AFFECTIONATE MEMORY / OF / BINGO, / SECRETLY AND CRUELLY PUT TO DEATH, / IN COLD BLOOD; / BY A / NEIGHBOUR AND FRIEND. / JUNE 1881.' If this explanation ever reaches my neighbors' eyes, I humbly hope they will have the decency to remove or soften that memorial. They cannot imagine what I suffer when curious visitors insist, as they do every day, on spelling out those words from our windows and pestering me with questions about them.

Sometimes I meet the Curries around the village, and as they pass me with heads turned away, I feel myself blush crimson. Travers is now almost always with Lilian. He has given her a fox terrier, and they take ostentatious pains to keep it away from my garden. I would like to assure them here that they need not worry. I have shot one dog.