Acting on Impulse Read online

  “Yours truly,

  “Katharine Testram.”

  Ruthven read the document through twice. He did not glance at the pedigree, but rose and went to his desk. In his neat, masterly hand, he answered the letter in this wise:—

  “Dear Miss Testram,

  “I enclose a cheque for twenty guineas. If you will send Mr. Sykes over to my flat at your convenience, I can promise that he will receive every attention, and an appreciative owner. I trust you will visit him whenever you wish.

  “Yours truly,

  “Hugh Ruthven.”

  “Now, confound it, why have I asked the girl to visit him?” exclaimed Ruthven. He twisted the letter in his hand, undecidedly. “Oh, well! Let it stand!”

  With trembling lips Katharine gave Mr. Sykes a last hug.

  “He—he’ll—be good to you, darling. He—he’s got a hard, cruel m-mouth, but he likes you. An’—an’ it was—it was a n-nice letter! Only I sh-shan’t ever c-come to see you—cos—it’ud—m-make you so miserable. Be—besides he— abominates—women!” She kissed the top of Mr. Sykes’ head, and hurriedly departed, while the sympathetic parlour-maid took Sykes and a receipt to Mr. Ruthven’s flat.

  For Katharine's great-aunt was dead at last, to the great relief of her family. An attack of bronchitis had carried her off, and Katharine was left, practically penniless. She had tried hard to find a post as companion to some lady who would not object to her keeping Mr. Sykes, but that lady did not seem to be in existence. Either she herself possessed a dog, or a cat, or had a rooted objection to them. Try as she might, Katharine could find but one solution to the problem. Mr. Sykes must go to the hated Ruthven.

  RUTHVEN stretched his legs to the fire, and frowned down at Mr. Sykes, lying uneasily at his feet.

  “I’ve been finding out one or two things about your late mistress, Sykes,” he said.

  Mr. Sykes lifted his head. A hopeful gleam came into his worried eyes, and he snuffled eagerly. The word “mistress” had caught his attention. Ruthven patted him.

  “Sorry, old man. That was not my meaning. She’s in a bad way, you know. She’s very hard up.”

  Mr. Sykes gave vent to a short, gruff bark. He waddled to the door.

  “All right,” said Ruthven. “But it’s only for your sake, remember!” He pulled out his pocket-book and drew from it a slip of paper. “Radclyffe Gardens,” he read. “Beastly hole. Come along.”

  Mr. Sykes followed him joyously out. Twenty minutes later the manageress of the boarding-house eyed Ruthven curiously.

  “Miss Testram has gone,” she announced.

  “Gone! Where?”

  The manageress folded her hands.

  “Our charges were too high for Miss Testram,” she exclaimed. “I believe she has gone into rooms.”

  “Will you please give me the address?” said Ruthven coldly.

  “Oh, certainly!” She disappeared into her office, drawing her skirts away from Mr. Sykes. Presently she emerged. “Bryan Road,” she announced, with a small sniff. “No. 245.”

  “Thank you,” bowed Ruthven. “Come along, Sykes.” Once in his car again, he frowned at Sykes. “Bryan Road?” he said. “Do you call that a proper place for a girl like the Spitfire?”

  Mr. Sykes sneezed.

  “I should think not,” said Ruthven. “And you must understand that it is solely on your account that I am seeking her out.”

  He imagined a quizzical gleam in the bulldog’s eye. He promptly stared Mr. Sykes out of countenance.

  Miss Testram had rented a bed-sitting-room over a furniture shop. Ruthven and Sykes climbed slowly up the dingy staircase, and knocked at Katharine’s door. Mr. Sykes snuffled violently, for his nose had caught a whiff of his mistress’s scent.

  Katharine opened the door, and the instant he set eyes on her, Ruthven decided that she looked wan and underfed.

  “What—oh, Sykes!” Katharine fell on her knees, and received Mr. Sykes’ heavy body in her arms. For a little while he occupied all her thoughts, and the air was filled with mingled snuffles, tears, and laughter. Then Katharine stood up, brushing her hand across her eyes.

  “I—beg your pardon. I—what—”

  “I brought Mr. Sykes to see you,” said Ruthven. “He misses you rather badly.”

  “He’s getting thin,” she reproached him.

  “I know. May I ask what you are doing?”

  “I—I take in—typing,” she said, as jauntily as she could.

  Ruthven looked hard at her.

  “Yes? Well, is there any reason why you should not keep Sykes with you, now that you are in all day?”

  A sudden flush dyed Katharine’s cheeks.

  “Oh! Oh, could—” She collected herself. “I—I’m afraid I can’t—offer to—to buy him back—just at present,” she said with difficulty. “It’s—very kind of you.”

  “No, it is not,” contradicted Ruthven. “I can’t have a moping dog on my hands. If you’ll take him, you’ll be doing me a favour. There is no immediate hurry for payment. I hope you will—er—pay me at your convenience.”

  Katharine’s eyes filled.

  “Do—do you—really mean—it?” she asked.

  “Of course I mean it!” he answered roughly. “But I must ask you to let me—er—visit him occasionally.”

  “I don’t—feel I ought—”

  “I shall not take him back with me, so if you don’t keep him, he’ll stray.”

  “I—I haven’t much choice, have I?” she said with a tired sort of smile. “Thank you very, very much. I—I hope you’ll come to see him—whenever you like.” She held out her hand.

  Ruthven took it, and found himself saying:

  “Er—I wonder—could you lunch with me tomorrow?”

  Katharine was surprised.

  “Lunch with you? It’s very kind of you, but—”

  “And Sykes, of course. I’ll call for you.”

  “But—”

  “Please don’t argue!” said Ruthven, curtly, and departed.

  A MONTH later, after several lunches, two teas, and some motor-drives with Katharine, Ruthven received a letter from her.

  “Dear Mr. Ruthven,

  “It’s no good. I can’t keep Sykes. He frets terribly for you, and I can’t bear to see him growing so thin. Will you please take him back? He likes you better than me.

  “Yours sincerely,

  “Katharine Testram.”

  Ruthven spent half an hour staring into the fire. Then he carefully folded the letter and put it into his pocket-book, together with another in the same hand-writing. Next he wrote an answer to Katharine.

  “Dear Miss Testram,

  “I will call on you on Thursday morning, if you have no objection, to discuss the matter of Mr. Sykes.

  “Yours sincerely,

  “Hugh Ruthven.”

  Before Ruthven left his flat on Thursday, he gave a few parting instructions to his servant, concerning lunch, and the preparation of a certain room. The servant was, as he put it, completely flabbergasted at the extraordinary announcement Mr. Ruthven had made, two days before. He had talked it over with his wife, Ruthven’s cook, and they agreed that it was incomprehensible.

  When Katharine opened her door to Ruthven that morning, it was quite obvious that she had been crying. Ruthven perceived it at a glance. However, he did not remark on it.

  “Put your things on,” he commanded, “and bring Sykes.”

  “But—”

  “I am not going to argue about it, Katharine. Put your hat on.”

  Katharine blushed, for her had never addressed her by her Christian name until now.

  “I don’t understand—”

  “I can’t and won’t talk to you here,” interrupted Ruthven. “I’ll explain in the car. Go and do as I tell you.”

  Katharine went with surprising meekness. Not until they were driving along the street did she venture another question. Sykes, panting blissfully, was wedged in between them, trying to lick both their fa