bly marry any one
while I thought that of him. And I shall always have that feeling unless
you find Bingo!"

It was of no use to argue with her; I knew Lilian by that time. With
her pretty, caressing manner she united a latent obstinacy which it
was hopeless to attempt to shake. I feared, too, that she was not quite
certain as yet whether she cared for me or not, and that this condition
of hers was an expedient to gain time.

I left her with a heavy heart. Unless I proved my worth by bringing back
Bingo within a very short time, Travers would probably have everything
his own way. And Bingo was dead!

However, I took heart. I thought that perhaps if I could succeed by my
earnest efforts in persuading Lilian that I really was doing all in my
power to recover the poodle, she might relent in time, and dispense with
his actual production.

So, partly with this object, and partly to appease the remorse which
now revived and stung me deeper than before, I undertook long and weary
pilgrimages after office hours. I spent many pounds in advertisements; I
interviewed dogs of every size, colour, and breed, and of course I took
care to keep Lilian informed of each successive failure. But still her
heart was not touched; she was firm. If I went on like that, she told
me, I was certain to find Bingo one day; then, but not before, would her
doubts be set at rest.

I was walking one day through the somewhat squalid district which lies
between Bow Street and High Holborn, when I saw, in a small theatrical
costumer's window, a hand-bill stating that a black poodle had "followed
a gentleman" on a certain date, and if not claimed and the finder
remunerated before a stated time would be sold to pay expenses.

I went in and got a copy of the bill to show Lilian, and, although by
that time I scarcely dared to look a poodle in the face, I thought I
would go to the address given and see the animal, simply to be able to
tell Lilian I had done so.

The gentleman whom the dog had very unaccountably followed was a certain
Mr. William Blagg, who kept a little shop near Endell Street, and called
himself a bird-fancier, though I should scarcely have credited him with
the necessary imagination. He was an evil-browed ruffian in a fur cap,
with a broad broken nose and little shifty red eyes; and after I had
told him what I wanted he took me through a horrible little den, stacked
with piles of wooden, wire, and wicker prisons, each quivering with