far from emanating from the moon, was none other than Mr. Morgan's
evil genius, following him about wherever he went. It was, in fact,
his torch, which in his confusion he had thrust glowing into his pocket
_the wrong way up_. That one end must protrude, he knew, for the brand
was longer than the pocket was deep. He had, of course, no idea at all
that it was advertising his presence and slightest movement so very
faithfully....

It became impossible for Mr. Morgan any longer to restrain his breath.
He therefore expelled it as gently as he possibly could, inhaling a
fresh supply with the same caution, and wondering dully whether it was
to be his last. The suspense was unbearable.

Anthony, of course, was perfectly satisfied that the light was thrown
by a torch. The source of the latter, however, was shrouded, not only
in mystery, but in a darkness which the very light of the beam served
to intensify. He continued to stand still.

There never was such a case.

Anthony, who knew the value of waiting, was prepared to stay still
indefinitely. Mr. Morgan was afraid to do anything else. Clearly, if
they were not to remain where they were until dawn, there was need of a
_deus ex machina_.

He arrived then and there in the shape of a little white dog with a
black patch. He was extremely wet, and there were burrs in his coat
and mud upon his beard. His tail was up, however, and his gait as
sprightly as ever.

As if it was upon his account that the door had been set open at this
unlawful hour, he entered boldly, passed by Anthony in the gloom, and
then stood still like his master, staring at the mysterious beam. But
not for long. For Patch, curiosity was made to be satisfied. Stepping
warily, he moved forward to investigate....

When first Mr. Morgan realized that something was smelling him from
behind, he made ready to die. Then, so tenacious is the hold we
mortals have upon life, he gave an unearthly shriek and sprang from his
bended knees for the drawing-room doorway....

When Mr. Bumble and his chauffeur, the one in his night attire and the
other in a vest and a pair of dress trousers, appeared upon the scene,
Anthony was kneeling upon Mr. Morgan, who was lying face downwards upon
the drawing-hearth and dealing as fluently as a sheep-skin rug would
permit with Anthony's birth, life, death and future existence. As for
Patch, his services no longer required, he was rolling upon the sofa in
an absurd ende