Mr. Wood, who had ceased to expect any reply to his letter, was surprised
and gratified to find Digby Driver at his bedside. He looked wretchedly ill
and explained that he still had a good deal of pain in his left leg, which had
been broken in two places.
“It’ll never be as good as it was, I’m told,” he said. “Still, I shall be able
to walk again—after a fashion—and drive a car; and I’ll be able to get back
to work, of course, which’ll be everything. But Mr. Driver, kind of you as it
is to come here, I’m sure you didn’t make the journey simply to hear about
my health. Can you tell me about the dog in the photograph? Is it my dog?”
“You tell me,” answered Driver. “There are the originals.” And he laid
them on the sheet before Mr. Wood’s eyes.
“Why, that is Snitter!” cried Mr. Wood. “There’s not a doubt of it!” He
looked up with his eyes full of tears. “Good God, what have they done to
him? However could he have fallen into their hands? I can’t bear to look at
it. Mr. Driver, please tell me at once—where is the dog? Have they killed
him or what?”