"Well, what she says is that he will soon be old if he doesn't take care. He is a bachelor at all events, and is very fond of children, but has never had one to play with.""Could not play with a child though there was one," I said brusquely; "has forgotten the way; could stand and stare only.""Yes, if the parents were present. But he thinks that if he were alone with the child he could come out strong.""How the deuce--" I began "That is what she says," he explained, apologetically. "I think she will prove to be too clever for him.""Pooh," I said, but undoubtedly I felt a dizziness, and the next time I met him he quite frightened me. "Do you happen to know any one," he said, "who has a St. Bernard dog?""No," said I, picking up my stick.
"He has a St. Bernard dog."
"How have you found that out?"
"She has found it out."
"But how?"
"I don't know."
I left him at once, for Porthos was but a little way behind me.
The mystery of it scared me, but I armed promptly for battle. Iengaged a boy to walk Porthos in Kensington Gardens, and gave him these instructions: "Should you find yourself followed by a young woman wheeling a second-hand perambulator, instantly hand her over to the police on the charge of attempting to steal the dog."Now then, Mary.
"By the way," her husband said at our next meeting, "that rocking- horse I told you of cost three guineas.""She has gone to the shop to ask?"
"No, not to ask that, but for a description of the purchaser's appearance."Oh, Mary, Mary.
Here is the appearance of purchaser as supplied at the Arcade:--looked like a military gentleman; tall, dark, and rather dressy;fine Roman nose (quite so), carefully trimmed moustache going grey (not at all); hair thin and thoughtfully distributed over the head like fiddlestrings, as if to make the most of it (pah!);dusted chair with handkerchief before sitting down on it, and had other oldmaidish ways (I should like to know what they are);tediously polite, but no talker; bored face; age forty-five if a day (a lie); was accompanied by an enormous yellow dog with sore eyes. (They always think the haws are sore eyes.)"Do you know anyone who is like that?" Mary's husband asked me innocently.
"My dear man," I said, "I know almost no one who is not like that," and it was true, so like each other do we grow at the club. I was pleased, on the whole, with this talk, for it at least showed me how she had come to know of the St. Bernard, but anxiety returned when one day from behind my curtains I saw Mary in my street with an inquiring eye on the windows. She stopped a nurse who was carrying a baby and went into pretended ecstasies over it. I was sure she also asked whether by any chance it was called Timothy. And if not, whether that nurse knew any other nurse who had charge of a Timothy.
Obviously Mary suspicioned me, but nevertheless, I clung to Timothy, though I wished fervently that I knew more about him;for I still met that other father occasionally, and he always stopped to compare notes about the boys. And the questions he asked were so intimate, how Timothy slept, how he woke up, how he fell off again, what we put in his bath. It is well that dogs and little boys have so much in common, for it was really of Porthos I told him; how he slept (peacefully), how he woke up (supposed to be subject to dreams), how he fell off again (with one little hand on his nose), but I glided past what we put in his bath (carbolic and a mop).
The man had not the least suspicion of me, and I thought it reasonable to hope that Mary would prove as generous. Yet was Istraitened in my mind. For it might be that she was only biding her time to strike suddenly, and this attached me the more to Timothy, as if I feared she might soon snatch him from me. As was indeed to be the case.
