Now she must concentrate on the flames of the fireplace, see nothing but them, think of nothing but the swiftly changing domes and walls and pinnacles they made.  She leaned a little forward and rested her cheek upon her right hand—­and thereby she shut out the sight of Dan Barry effectually.  Also it made a brace to keep her from turning her head towards him, and she needed every support, physical and mental.

Still he did not move.  Was he in truth looking at her, or was he staring beyond her at the grey sky which lowered past the window?  The faintest creaking sound told her that he had risen, slowly, from the crouch.  Then not a sound, except that she knew, in some mysterious manner, that he moved, but whether towards her or towards the door she could not dream.  But he stepped suddenly and noiselessly into the range of her vision and sat down on a low bench at one side of the hearth.  If the strain had been tense before, it now became terrible; for there he sat almost facing her, and looking intently at her, yet she must keep all awareness of him out of her eyes.  In the excitement a strong pulse began to beat in the hollow of her throat, as if her heart were rising.  She had won, she had kept him in the room, she had brought him to a keen thought of her.  A Pyrrhic victory, for she was poised on the very edge of a cliff of hysteria.  She began to feel a tremor of the hand which supported her cheek.  If that should become visible to him he would instantly know that all her apparent unconsciousness was a sham, and then she would have lost him truly!

Something sounded at one of the doors—­and then the door opened softly.  She was almost glad of the interruption, for another instant might have swept away the last reserve of her strength.  So this, then, was the end.

But the footfall which sounded in the apartment was a soft, padding step, with a little scratching sound, light as a finger running on a frosty window pane.  And then a long, shaggy head slipped close to Whistling Dan.  It was Black Bart!

A wave of terror swept through her.  She remembered another scene, not many months before, when Black Bart had drawn his master away from her and led him south, south, after the wild geese.  The wolf-dog had come again like a demoniac spirit to undo her plans!

Only an instant—­the crisis of a battle—­then the great beast turned slowly, faced her, slunk with his long stride closer, and then a cold nose touched the hand which gripped the arm of her chair.  It gave her a welcome excuse for action of some sort; she reached out her hand, slowly, and touched the forehead of Black Bart.  He winced back, and the long fangs flashed; her hand remained tremulously poised in air, and then the long head approached again, cautiously, and once more she touched it, and since it did not stir, she trailed the tips of her fingers backwards towards the ears.  Black Bart snarled again, but it was a sound so subdued as to be almost like the purring of a great cat.  He sank down, and the weight of his head came upon her feet.  Victory!