That same night after the household had retired, and the premises were supposed to be wrapped in sleep (though some of the servants were gambling in their go-downs) Mayne was aroused by a wild piercing scream. He jumped out of bed, and as he hurried on some clothes, saw a bare-footed white figure, lamp in hand, flash down the verandah shrieking:
"Sam! Sam! A panther has taken him! Daddy—Daddy—hurry!"
Mayne snatched his gun, and rushed out; the light was very faint, but as he ran up the path, he was aware of a choking noise, and a something large bounding along not far ahead. He followed the sound, in among the rocks and bushes, and then suddenly lost it. By this time, the whole place was swarming with men armed with sticks and lanterns, Nancy in a blue garment, and her father half dressed, heading an excited crowd. Alas! the tragic truth had to be faced—Sam was gone! taken from the door of his mistress's room, and carried off in his sleep, by one of those treacherous devils.
With bobbing lanterns, crashing sticks, and loud harsh shouts, the whole of the rocks were most thoroughly beaten, but without result; of dog or panther there was not a trace. After an hour's exhaustive search, Mayne returned to the bungalow—his lamp had gone out. Here in the verandah he distinguished a sobbing figure; Nancy, alone and in uncontrollable grief. Between her sobs she moaned:
"Oh, my poor darling Sam! Oh, the cruelty—oh, Daddy, what shall I do—what shall I do?" and she suddenly flung herself upon Mayne, and sobbed out in the tone of a child asking for consolation, "Daddy, Daddy, what shall I do?"
They were the same height, and in the dark, she had mistaken him for her father,—who was still pursuing a hopeless search among the rocks,—but the situation was not the less embarrassing,—especially as the girl clung to her supposed parent, with both arms clasped tightly round his neck, and her face buried in his coat. Suddenly she realized her mistake, and with a violent jerk, drew herself away.
"Why, you're not Daddy!" she gasped out, breathlessly, "I know by the feel of your coat. It's Captain Mayne—I've been—hugging."
"It's all right, Nancy," taking her hands in his. "Poor little girl! I'm just as sorry for you, as ever I can be, and I'll never rest, till I bring you in the skin of the brute that has killed Sam. Here is your father now," and Mayne tactfully withdrew, and abandoned the pair to their grief,—Nancy's the wildest, and most poignant, that he had ever witnessed.
The following day, Francis the butler, mysteriously imparted to Mayne the news, that Sam's collar, and one paw had been found.
"But say not one word to the Missy. We bury in dogs' graveyard; the beast is a big female with young cubs, therefore is she overbold. That dog Sam," and his black eyes looked moist, "I also loved him, too much."