al combat and got chewed up. In what possible guise
could death come to a confirmed basket-dweller? It would be too
suspicious if we invented a Suffragette raid and pretended that they
invaded Lena's boudoir and threw a brick at him. We should have to do a
lot of other damage as well, which would be rather a nuisance, and the
servants would think it odd that they had seen nothing of the invaders."

"I have an idea," said Elsie; "get a box with an air-tight lid, and bore
a small hole in it, just big enough to let in an indiarubber tube. Pop
Louis, kennel and all, into the box, shut it down, and put the other end
of the tube over the gas-bracket. There you have a perfect lethal
chamber. You can stand the kennel at the open window afterwards, to get
rid of the smell of gas, and all that Lena will find when she comes home
late in the afternoon will be a placidly defunct Louis."

"Novels have been written about women like you," said Strudwarden; "you
have a perfectly criminal mind. Let's come and look for a box."

Two mornings later the conspirators stood gazing guiltily at a stout
square box, connected with the gas-bracket by a length of indiarubber
tubing.

"Not a sound," said Elsie; "he never stirred; it must have been quite
painless. All the same I feel rather horrid now it's done."

"The ghastly part has to come," said Strudwarden, turning off the gas.
"We'll lift the lid slowly, and let the gas out by degrees. Swing the
door to and fro to send a draught through the room."

Some minutes later, when the fumes had rushed off, he stooped down and
lifted out the little kennel with its grim burden. Elsie gave an
exclamation of terror. Louis sat at the door of his dwelling, head erect
and ears pricked, as coldly and defiantly inert as when they had put him
into his execution chamber. Strudwarden dropped the kennel with a jerk,
and stared for a long moment at the miracle-dog; then he went into a peal
of chattering laughter.

It was certainly a wonderful imitation of a truculent-looking toy
Pomeranian, and the apparatus that gave forth a wheezy bark when you
pressed it had materially helped the imposition that Lena, and Lena's
maid, had foisted on the household. For a woman who disliked animals,
but liked getting her own way under a halo of unselfishness, Mrs.
Strudwarden had managed rather well.

"Louis is dead," was the curt information that greeted Lena on her return
from her luncheon party.

"Louis _d