“I must get a drink of water”, she muttered.

“How long have you been in the Art business?” Mr Greig asked.

“Far too long,” said Mistress.

“Would you mind giving me a proper answer, Miss Taylor,” Mr Greig snapped.

He had interrogation skills. He reminded me of the trainer on Hampstead Heath whose verbal commands were so fierce, half his dogs ran away.

“Twelve years,” said Mistress.

“I see,” Mr Greig replied.

“No you don’t!” cried Mistress. “The Nude has been depicted since the beginning of time. What about the Greeks and the Kama Sutra? What about Picasso?”

At this point, I wanted to help her. After all, she had brought me up to be the pug I am.

I barked and I barked again.

“I am not talking about the celebrated Nude or Picasso,” said Mr Greig. “Our enquiries lead us to believe that there are indecent images connected with your working practice. I am in charge of the investigation.”

Mr Grieg pulled at the collar of his big, black coat.

Mistress began to cry. I was going to have to prop her up later.

At this point, I heard the key turn in the door. It was Marek. As usual, he was whistling in his good humoured way and he came up the stairs two at a time. Never have I been so pleased to see a human in my life.

“What is this?” he asked, spreading his hands wide. He took in Mistress’s sobs and the man who stood with his arms folded. Mr Grieg made her office seem very small. The Gestapo in the office.

“What is going on, Julia?” “Why are you crying?” Marek asked.

“I’ve been accused of parading pornography on the internet. Can you believe it?” Mistress’s voice had fallen to a whisper.

Marek took a step back. “I see,” he said slowly. “May be I explain.”

I sat down on my bottom and felt my curly tail tremble. Something was in the offing.

“I have been working with pornographic photographs taken direct from the Internet. I am helping a friend from Warsaw, a Professor, whose subject is Surrealism. He has this project, a very important project.”

Marek gave a shrug. “Everyone does it, you know,” he said.

“I see,” replied Mr Greig.

He took one of his large hands out of his pocket and with it, a notebook and a pen.

Mistress had her mouth open. She couldn’t utter a word.

“And your name is?” Mr Greig asked.

I swear Marek’s eyes turned the colour of coal.

“My name is Marek Czcibor,” he said.

Most dogs know the look that can kill. Marek had it now. I gave what I thought was a fierce growl, but nobody paid me any attention.

Mr Greig wrote something down on his note pad.

“And how long have you been in this country, Mr Czcibor?”