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 "Malone must take care of himself. Your man persuaded me to come out at last by saying the dog was chained up in his kennel: if I had not been assured of this, I would have remained all day in the chamber. But what is that? I declare the man has told a falsehood! The dog is there!"

And indeed Tartar walked past the glass-door opening to the garden, stiff, tawny, and black-muzzled as ever. He still seemed in bad humour: he was growling again, and whistling a half-strangled whistle, being an inheritance from the bull-dog side of his ancestry.

"There are other visitors coming," observed Shirley, with that provoking coolness which the owners of formidable-looking dogs are apt to shew while their animals are all bristle and bay. Tartar sprang down the pavement towards the gate, bellowing "avec explosion." His mistress quietly opened the glass-door, and stepped out chirruping to him. His bellow was already silenced, and he was lifting up his huge, blunt, stupid head to the new callers to be patted.

"What—Tartar, Tartar!" said a cheery, rather boyish voice: "don't you know us? Good-morning, old boy!"

And little Mr. Sweeting, whose conscious good-nature made him comparatively fearless of man, woman, child, or brute, came through the gate, caressing the guardian. His Vicar, Mr. Hall, followed: he had no fear of Tartar either, and Tartar had no