She found him in his bedchamber, sitting in an armchair in a dark-red silk dressing gown, contemplating the fire with his slippered feet propped on the fender. Looking up at her entrance, he smiled. Without stopping to consider her words, she blurted, “You’ll think I’m mad, Chuff, but Kintyre is my ghost.” “What?” Shifting his feet to the floor with a thud, he turned around in the chair to look at her in astonishment. “It’s the truth, I tell you. He’s my ghost come to life. I saw a slight resemblance before, but I thought I had imagined it.” “You’re daft, Pinkie. Kintyre’s as much a man as any we’ve met, more of a man than most, in fact.” Pinkie sighed, trying to contain her agitation. “I know this sounds daft, Chuff, and I know full well that he’s a man. Still, he’s the embodiment of my ghost. I ought to have understood it all when I first saw the dog.” “You ought to have seen what?” “That Cailean—that’s what Kintyre calls him—” “Hold on a minute,”
