'Harvey? For you to take care of,' said Attley. 'He's had distemper, but I'm going abroad.'
'Take him with you. I won't have him. He's mentally afflicted.'
'Look here,' Attley almost shouted, 'do I strike you as a fool?'
'Always,' said I.
'Well, then, if you say so, and Ella says so, that proves I ought to go abroad.'
'Will's wrong, quite wrong,' Mrs. Godfrey interrupted; 'but you must take the pup.'
'My dear boy, my dear boy, don't you ever give anything to a woman,' Attley snorted.
Bit by bit I got the story out of them in the quiet garden (never a sign from Bettina and Malachi), while Harvey stared me out of countenance, first with one cuttlefish eye and then with the other.
It appeared that, a month after Miss Sichliffe took him, the dog Harvey developed distemper. Miss Sichliffe had nursed him herself for some time; then she carried him in her arms the two miles to Mittleham, and wept—actually wept—at Attley's feet, saying that Harvey was all she had or expected to have in this world, and Attley must cure him. Attley, being by wealth, position, and temperament guardian to all lame dogs, had put everything aside for this unsavoury job, and, he asserted, Miss Sichliffe had virtually lived with him ever since.
'She went home at night, of course,' he exploded, 'but the rest of the time she simply infested the premises. Goodness knows, I'm not
