"Here are the flashlights," interposed the Mistress. "Let me open that door for you. I understand the bolt."
Out into the dark they went, all but colliding with McGillicuddy. The Scot, awakened like the rest, had gone to the paddock. He had now come back to report the paddock empty and all the sheep gone.
"It's the collie tike!" sputtered McGillicuddy. "I'll tak' oath to it. I ken it's him. I suspeecioned him a' long, from how he garred at oor sheep the day. He——"
"I said so!" roared the Wall Street Farmer. "The murderous brute! First, he tries to kill Morty. And now he slaughters my sheep. You——"
The Master started to speak. But a white little hand, in the darkness, was laid gently across his mouth.
"You told me he always slept under the piano in your music room!" accused the guest as the four made their way paddock-ward, lighting a path with the electric flashlights. "Well, I looked there just now. He isn't under the piano. He—— He——"
"Lad!" called the Master; then at the top of his lungs. "Lad!"
A distant growl, a snarl, a yelp, a scramble—and presently Lad appeared in the farthest radius of the flashlight flare.
For only a moment he stood there. Then he wheeled about and vanished in the dark. Nor had the Master the voice to call him back. The momentary glimpse of the great collie, in the merciless gleam of the lights, had stricken the whole party into an instant's speechlessness.
Vividly distinct against the darkness they had seen Lad. His well-groomed coat was rumpled. His eyes were fire-balls. And—his jaws were red with blood. Then he had vanished.