The Last Drive by Rex Stout Page A

perhaps serve as well as gayety, he stopped directly in front of her, bowed politely, and smiled sadly.
    â€œIs this your dog?” he asked.
    The girl regarded the terrier with an impersonal curiosity, and then looked up at Thrawn.
    â€œYes,” she answered, “it is. Where did you find him?”
    Thrawn sat down on the bench at her side, still holding the terrier. This was rather more than he had bargained for. He had expected the dog to serve as an introduction, but he had not expected to find a claimant in this charming brown and white nymph. He looked first at the girl, then at the terrier, perplexed. They certainly did not seem suited to each other.
    â€œAre you sure he is yours?”
    The girl looked slightly amused. “Do you doubt it?” she asked. “See!”
    She held out her arms, and the terrier leaped into them and nestled cozily in her lap. That, of course, was convincing.
    â€œHe will soil your dress,” said Thrawn, indifferently.
    The girl was silent, running her slender white fingers through the terrier’s silky hair.
    â€œWhat—what sort of a dog is he?” asked Thrawn.
    â€œA—a—Paisley,” answered the girl. “English. You must forgive me,” she continued after a pause, “if I don’t thank you for finding him for me. The truth is, I am not thankful.”
    Thrawn looked uncomfortable.
    â€œDon’t do that,” said the girl abruptly. “That’s the way I feel.”
    â€œGood Heavens!” exclaimed Thrawn. “So do I.”
    They smiled at each other sympathetically. Then, as a flush slowly appeared under the coat of tan, the girl turned her face away.
    â€œThat,” said Thrawn almost cheerfully, “was what I needed. I suppose I should go now. What would you do,” he continued, “if I should insist on sitting here and talking to you?”
    â€œThat depends,” answered the girl. “Are you ever amusing? You see,” she went on, without giving him time to answer, “that is the only thing that matters. For you are evidently quite harmless.”
    At this Thrawn was almost indignant. To be called harmless by a pretty girl is anything but comforting.
    â€œI’m not a pirate,” he said, “if that’s what you mean. Nor a murderer. But there are times—” He hesitated.
    â€œThere are just two kinds of men,” said the girl, speaking to the terrier, “that are dangerous. First, the impossible kind.”
    â€œWell?” asked Thrawn.
    â€œOh, one merely calls a policeman. Of course,” regarding him critically, “you are not impossible.”
    â€œThank you,” said Thrawn gravely.
    â€œThen,” the girl continued, “there is the masterful kind. Like the heroes of novels. There are such men, you know.”
    â€œAnd I, of course, am not one of them,” said Thrawn foolishly.
    The girl laughed. “Never!” she declared. “Can you imagine such a man walking in Central Park with a fuzzy terrier in his arms, at four o’clock on a Friday afternoon in June?”
    â€œIt was your terrier,” said Thrawn, with just resentment.
    â€œThat only makes it worse,” declared the girl. “No; you are too safe to be interesting.”
    â€œYou are taking an unfair advantage,” Thrawn asserted hotly.
    The girl smiled sweetly. “Do you know,” she said thoughtfully, “you ought to be a school teacher. You talk just like one. Are you?”
    Thrawn turned and faced her squarely, and saw the teasing smile, the roguish tilt of the head, the dainty whiteness of her hands resting half hidden in the terrier’s coat.
    â€œFor the first time in four months,” he said evenly, “I am thoroughly angry. The last time was—but that doesn’t matter. What I wanted to say was that since I am safe, it naturally follows that anything I do is proper.”
    He bent his head swiftly over the