"Then--I received what I may term a warning. My position is a peculiar one--
a peculiar one. My daughter, too, saw this prowling, person,
over by the Roman castrum, and described him as a yellow man.
It was the incident in the train following closely upon this other, which led
me to speak to the police, little as I desired to--er--court publicity."
Nayland Smith walked to a window, and looked out across
the sloping lawn to where the shadows of the shrubbery lay.
A dog was howling dismally somewhere.
"Your defenses are not impregnable, after all, then?" he jerked.
"On our way up this evening Mr. Denby was telling us about the death
of his collie a few nights ago."
The clergyman's face clouded.
"That, certainly, was alarming," he confessed.
"I had been in London for a few days, and during my absence Vernon
came down, bringing the dog with him. On the night of his arrival
it ran, barking, into the shrubbery yonder, and did not come out.
He went to look for it with a lantern, and found it lying among
the bushes, quite dead. The poor creature had been dreadfully
beaten about the head."
"The gates were locked," Denby interrupted, "and no one could
have got out of the grounds without a ladder and someone
to assist him. But there was so sign of a living thing about.
Edwards and I searched every corner."
"How long has that other dog taken to howling?" inquired Smith.
"Only since Rex's death," said Denby quickly.
"It is my mastiff," explained the clergyman, "and he is confined in the yard.
He is never allowed on this side of the house."
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