It was Christmas Eve and the weather, even in Essex, was sharp and frosty.

The muddy road was frozen hard and the afternoon sun, slanting through the oak trees that bordered the road beyond the village, made no perceptible impression on the cold.

The two men walked briskly in the direction of the park gate.

Before they had quite reached it however, the door of the cottage opposite was opened, and Stamboul, the Russian bloodhound, bounded down the path, cleared the wicket gate in his vast stride, and then turning suddenly crouched in the middle of the road to wait for his master.

But the dog instantly caught sight of the vicar, with whom he was on very good terms, and trotted slowly up to him, thrusting his great nose into his hand, and then proceeding to make acquaintance with John.
He seemed to approve of the stranger, for he gave a short sniff of satisfaction and trotted back to the wicket of the cottage.