And at the same instant the dog began to bark.
It was a small dog—the sort of animal from which you would have expected a noise like a squeaking slate-pencil: but it was simply baying. It had retired into a corner, and was leaning against the wall with bulging eyes; and every two seconds it chucked its head back in a kind of pained way and let out another terrific bellow.
Well, I know when I’m licked. I was sorry for Bingo and regretted the necessity of having to let him down; but the time had come, I felt, to shift. “Outside for Bertram!” was the slogan, and I took a running leap at the window and scrambled through.
And there on the path, as if they had been waiting for me by appointment, stood a policeman and a parlourmaid.
It was an embarrassing moment.
“Oh—er—there you are!” I said. And there was what you might call a contemplative silence for a moment.
“I told you I heard something,” said the parlourmaid.
The policeman was regarding me in a boiled way.
“What’s all this?” he asked.
I smiled in a sort of saintlike manner.
“It’s a little hard to explain,” I said.
“Yes, it is!” said the policeman.
“I was just—er—just having a look round, you know. Old friend of the family, you understand.”
“How did you get in?”