"That dog," commented the physician, "ought to be put out of his misery. He's a hopeless cripple and he needs a merciful dose of morphine. I'll mention it to Eben."
"It would be a gracious act," assented the younger man. "Life has become a burden to the old fellow."
Dr. Ebbett rose and tossed his cigar stump outward. "We've been sitting here theorizing for hours after the better-ordered members of the household have gone to their beds," he said. "It's about time to say good night." And the two men climbed the stairs and separated toward the doors of their respective rooms.
Dr. Ebbett left just after breakfast the next day, but on the verge of his departure he remembered and mentioned the dog.
"I've been meaning to shoot him," confessed Tollman, "but I've shrunk from playing executioner."
"Shooting is an awkward method," advised the doctor. "I have here a grain and a half of morphine in quarter-grain tablets. They will cause no suffering. They are readily soluble, won't be tasted, and will do the work."
"How much shall I give? I don't want to bungle it."
"It's simply a question of dosage. Let him have a half grain, I shouldn't care to give that much to either a dog or a man—unless a drug habitué—without expecting death—but there's the car and it's been a delightful visit."
Possibly some instinct warned the superannuated dog of his master's design. At all events he was never poisoned—he merely disappeared, and for the mystery of his fading from sight there was no solution.