“Just as you like. I’ve the heart of a lion and the soul of a paladin and the ruthlessness of an income tax man. But all those grand qualities crumple at the chance of getting away from the magenta room for the night. Thanks, a lot. I’d as soon swig homemade hootch as stay a night in this dump. The kind of hootch that people make by recipe and offer to their guests the same evening. They forget rum isn’t built in a day. I—”
“By the way,” interrupted Vail as he started for the door, “you don’t happen to have a pistol, do you?”
Perhaps it was the uncertain light which made him fancy a queer expression flitted swiftly across Willis Chase’s eyes. But, glibly, laughingly, the guest made answer:
“A pistol? Why, of course not! What’d be the sense in packing a gun here in the peaceful Berkshires? Thax, this burglar flurry has made you melodramatic. Good night, old man. Don’t snore too loudly over your sentry duty.”
Vail departed for the study while Chase stuffed an armful of clothes into a handbag and made his way along the dark hall to Thaxton’s bedroom. At the stair-foot Vail all but stumbled over the collie. Then, refusing the dog’s eagerly mute plea to accompany him into the study, he whispered:
“No, no, Mac! Lie down! Stay there on guard! Stay there!”
With a grunt of disappointment Macduff slumped down again at the foot of the stairs. Head between white paws, he lay looking wistfully after the departing man.
The night wore on.
Perhaps half an hour before the first dim gray tinged the sentinel black summit of old South Mountain to northwestward, the deathly silence of the sleeping house was broken by a low whistling cry—a sound not loud enough nor long enough to rouse any slumberer—scarce audible to human ears not tensely listening.
Yet to the keen hearing of Macduff as he drowsed at the stair-foot the sound was vividly distinct. The collie reared himself excitedly to his feet. Then, remembering Thaxton Vail’s stern command to stay there on guard, the dog hesitated. Mute, statuelike, attentive, he stood, his teeth beginning to glint from up-curling lips, his hackles abristle.