“Gentlemen,” in a whisper out of a dark corner. “If you’ll keep your voices down, I’ll be with you in a trice.” Slowly into their shifting spill of lantern-light, tongue a-loll, comes the Dog, who pauses to yawn, nods, “Good evening to ye,” and leads them at a trot out of the stables, out of the courtyard, and down the street, pausing now and then for nasal inquiries.
