d it, the
friendly talk that he had with Chipmunk would have made the Saint and
the Divines, and even the Crusader, Sir Guy de Chevenix, who were
buried in the cathedral, turn in their tombs.

Doggie, watching the disappearing Chipmunk, Oliver's knuckles in his
neck, said:

"I think it monstrous of Oliver to bring such a disreputable creature
down here."

Said the Dean: "At any rate, it brings a certain excitement into our
quiet surroundings."

"They must be having the time of their lives in the Servants' Hall,"
said Peggy.

CHAPTER IV

After breakfast the next morning Doggie, attired in a green shot-silk
dressing-gown, entered his own particular room and sat down to think.
In its way it was a very beautiful room--high, spacious,
well-proportioned, facing south-east. The wall-paper, which he had
designed himself, was ivory-white with veinings of peacock-blue. Into
the ivory-silk curtains were woven peacocks in full pride. The
cushions were ivory and peacock-blue. The chairs, the writing-table,
the couch, the bookcases, were pure Sheraton and Hepplewhite.
Vellum-bound books filled the cases--Doggie was very particular about
his bindings. Delicate water-colours alone adorned the walls. On his
neatly arranged writing-table lay an ivory set--inkstand, pen-tray,
blotter and calendar. Bits of old embroidery harmonizing with the
peacock shades were spread here and there. A pretty collection of
eighteenth-century Italian ivory statuettes were grouped about the
room. A spinet, inlaid with ebony and ivory, formed a centre for the
arrangement of many other musical instruments--a viol, mandolins gay
with ribbons, a theorbo, flutes and clarinets. Through the curtains,
draped across an alcove, could be guessed the modern monstrosity of a
grand piano. One tall closed cabinet was devoted to his collection of
wall-papers. Another, open, to a collection of little dogs in china,
porcelain, faience; thousands of them; he got them through dealers
from all over the world. He had the finest collection in existence,
and maintained a friendly and learned correspondence with the other
collector--an elderly, disillusioned Russian prince, who lived
somewhere near Nijni-Novgorod. On the spinet and on the writing-table
were great bowls of golden _rayon d'or_ roses.

Doggie sat down to think. An unwonted frown creased his brow. Several
problems distracted him. The morning sun streaming into the room
disclosed, beyond doubt, discolo