her yet. She knows he sees her, as he raises his hat. She has an
impression of his personality from the action; which, it may be, guides
her conduct in what follows.

He seems to have made up his mind to avoid the house, taking a visible
path which skirts it, and possibly to strike away from it into the wider
parkland, over yonder where the great oaks are. He is soon lost in a
hazel coppice.

Then she thinks. That dog will be shot if Solmes catches sight of it.
She knows old Stephen. Oh, for but one word with the dog's master! It
might just make the whole difference.

She does not think long; in fact, there is no time to lose. The man and
the dog must pass over Arthur's Bridge if they follow the path. She can
intercept them there by taking a short cut through the Trings; a name
with a forgotten origin, which hugs the spot unaccountably. "I wonder
what a tring was, and when" says Gwendolen to herself, between those
unsolved riddles and the bridge.

The bridge is a little stone bridge, just wide enough for a chaise to go
through gently. Gwendolen has soaked her shoes to reach it. Still, she
_must_ save that dog from the Ranger's gun at any cost. A fig for the
wet! She has to dress for dinner--indeed, her maid is waiting for her
now--and dry stockings will be a negligible factor in that great total.
There comes the pedestrian round by Swayne's Oak--another name whose
origin no man knows.

The dog catches sight of her, and is off like a shot, his master trying
vainly to whistle him back. The young lady is quite at ease--_she_ is
not afraid of dogs! She even laughs at this one's demonstrative salute,
which leaves a paw-mark on either shoulder. For dogs do not scruple to
kiss those they love, without making compliments.

His master is apologetic, coming up with a quickened pace. At a rebuke
from him the collie becomes apologetic too; would be glad to explain,
but is handicapped by language. He is, however, all repentance, and
falls back behind his master, leaving matters in his hands. At the
least--though the way of doing it may have been crude--he has brought
about an introduction, of a sort.

There is no intrusive wish on the man's part to take undue advantage of
it. His speech, "Achilles means well; it is only his cordiality," seems
to express the speaker's feeling that somehow he is certain to be
understood. His addendum--"I am really as sorry as I can be, all the
same"--may be credited to ceremonial courtesy, f