How much had Bunker seen?
How much had he understood?
Was it fancy, or did the dog crouch, the tiniest impulse, away from him as he bent to pat him?
Bunker was tired; he relapsed on to his haunches, wagged his tail, grinned, but in his eyes there seemed, although the lamplight was deceptive, to be the faintest shadow of an apprehension.
"Good old dog, good old Bunker." Bunker wagged his tail, but the tiniest shiver passed, like a thought, through his body.
Olva left him.
As he passed through the streets he met men whom he knew.

They nodded or flung a greeting.

How strange to think that to-morrow night they would be speaking of him in low, grave voices as one who was already dead.

"I knew the fellow quite well, strange, reserved man--nobody really knew him.

With these foreigners, you know.