At breakfast, next morning, Richard was innocuously humorous on the subject of revolvers, burglars, and clairvoyant bulldogs. He was interrupted by a servant, who announced that Mr Hammond wished to speak to him for a moment.
"Right," said Richard. "Where is he?"
"He is just outside, sir," said the man. "Mr Hammond would not come in."
Hammond was a neighbour of Richard's, a robust and heavily built man. As a rule he was a cheerful sportsman, but this morning his countenance was troubled. His clothes were covered with dust, and he looked generally dishevelled.
"Hallo, Jim," said Richard cheerily. "How goes it? You look as if you'd been out all night."
"I have," said Hammond grimly. "So have several other men."
"Why? What's up?"
"Outbreak of rabies at Barker's farm. He shot one of the dogs, but the other got away. There must have been some damned mismanagement. A lot of us have been out trying to find the brute all night."
"But, by Jove, this is most awfully serious. Can't I help? I'm ready to start now if you like."
"Thanks, but I found the dog five minutes ago—dead in a ditch not twenty yards from your gate. He's there still."