than her own will, she began the descent, holding on by the wall.  She went down the first flight, turned the corner—­without looking up, for she felt very giddy—­and then went on down the stairs, still groping.  At their foot she took a step or two along the passage and suddenly felt the shock of something solid and hairy against her face.  She screamed out and looked up and saw what it was that had made those ominous sounds, that had choked out life swinging from a beam of the hall.  Poor Wanda hung dead, her head limply to one side, her tongue out, her furry paws, that had pattered with so much energy and glee in her master’s service, dangling helplessly.

CHAPTER III

PHOEBE PAYS TOLL

When Ishmael returned a few hours later no one had thought to cut down the body of Wanda.  Everyone was too occupied with Phoebe, and those people who had come in by the hall had merely thrust the dangling obstruction aside and hurried on, with only a thought to it as the cause of the trouble upstairs.  Ishmael, finding his beloved dog hanging thus, coming on it without a word of warning, felt a shock, a sense of unbelievable outrage that made him for a moment or two think he must be dreaming or out of his mind.  He put out a hand and touched the pitiful thing before conviction came upon him, and with a shout of rage and pain he gathered Wanda in his arms, calling her name, hoping for a twitch of life.  Then he whipped out his knife and sawed through the cord and lowered the body upon the floor, felt for the heart, turned up the dropped eyelids, even shook the inanimate stiffening form of his pet.  He knew it was in vain—­that never again would she jump trustingly upon him, never again would she appear absurdly with one of his slippers in her wide mouth that always seemed to smile at the joke, coming down the drive to greet him; that never again would he have her for his untiring companion on his walks or upon the plateau where he was wont to lie and look into her wise eyes and talk to her without fear of contradiction, receiving that full measure of admiration and belief that only a dog gives.  So much was his grief, but overpowering that simpler emotion was a sick rage.  The knowledge that rough, brutal hands must have carried out this outrage, that in an agony of fear and astonishment she must have yielded up her breath, struck at his heart.  He got to his feet, and carrying the body into the parlour, laid it down, then went through to the kitchen.  The dairymaid was standing over a kettle of water that was heating on the fire; the other maid stood near her.  They had evidently been talking together earnestly when he burst in upon them; they had not even heard his approach.  Both girls seemed excited, charged with portent beyond the ordinary.  They stood staring at Ishmael, mouths open.

“What is the meaning of it?” he shouted at them.  “How is it you are both in here like this, and with—­that left in the passage?  Has everyone gone mad?  What has happened?”