She had grown into my heart and into its possession.  She clung to me tenderly, tearfully.  I could not tell her.  Her feminine instinct sensed disaster.  In spite of her tears I insisted.  When I kissed her goodnight she did not speak.  But she looked up at me through her tears.  It was the hardest thing of all for me to bear.

XVII

THE SHEPHERD

When I returned to the city next morning I took my dog.  It was a strange whim; but one which was to lead to a remarkable development.  I have always been a lover of dogs.  I was lonely.  There is a bond between a dog and his master.  It goes beyond definition; it roots down into nature.  I was to learn much.

She was an Australian shepherd.  She was of a tawny black and bob-tailed from birth.

What is the power that lies behind instinct?  How far does it go?  I had a notion that the dog would be outside the sinister clutch that was dragging me under.

Happily Jerome was fond of dogs.  He was reading.  When I entered with Queen tugging at the chain he looked up.  The dog recognised the heart of the man; when he stooped to pet her she moved her stub tail in an effusion of affectionate acceptance.  Jerome had been reading Le Bon’s theory on the evolution of force.  His researches after the mystery had led him into the depths of speculation; he had become quite a scholar.  After our first greeting I unhooked the chain and let Queen have the freedom of the house.  I related what had happened.  The detective closed the book and sat down.  The dog waited a bit for further petting; but missing that she began sniffing about the room.  There was nothing strange about it of course.  I myself paid not the slightest attention.  But the detective was watching.  While I was telling my story he was following every movement of the shepherd.  Suddenly he held up one finger.  I turned.

It was Queen.  A low growl, guttural and suspicious.  She was standing about a foot from the portieres that separated the library from the other room—­where we had lost Watson, and where Jerome had had his experience with the old lady.  Tense and rigid, one forepaw held up stealthily, her stub tail erect and the hair along her back bristled.  Again the low growl.  I caught Jerome’s eyes.  It was queer.

“What is it, Queen?” I spoke.

At the sound of my voice she wagged her tail and looked round, then stepped between the curtains.  Just her head.  She drew back; her lips drawn from her teeth, snarling.  She was rigid, alert, vitalised.  Somehow it made me cold.  She was a brave dog; she feared nothing.  The detective stepped forward and pulled the curtains apart.  The room was empty.  We looked into each other’s faces.  What is there to instinct?  What is its range?  We could see nothing.

But not to the dog.  Her eyes glowed.  Hate, fear, terror, her whole body rigid.