"Have you found something—sure?"
The animal barked joyously.
M. Paul was puzzled. Evidently there was a scent here, but what scent? He had made no experiments with Cæsar since the night of the crime, when the dog had taken the scent of the pistol and found the alleyway footprints. But that was ten days ago; the dog could not still be on that same scent. Impossible! Yet he was on some scent, and very eagerly. Coquenil had never seen him more impatient for permission to be off. Could a dog remember a scent for ten days?
"After all, what harm can it do?" reflected the detective, becoming interested in his turn. Then, deciding quickly, he gave the word, "Cherche!" and instantly the dog was away.
"He means business," muttered M. Paul, hurrying after him.
On through the woods went Cæsar, nose down, tail rigid, following the scent, moving carefully among the trees, and once or twice losing the trail, but quickly finding it again, and, presently, as he reached more open ground, running ahead swiftly, straight toward the coaching party.
In a flash Coquenil realized the danger and called loudly to the dog, but the distance was too great, and his voice was drowned by the cries of ladies on the break, who, seeing the bounding animal, screamed their fright. And no wonder, for this powerful, close-clipped creature, in his sudden rush looked like some formidable beast of prey; even the men started up in alarm.
"Cæsar!" shouted M. Paul, but it was too late. The dog was flying full at the break, eyes fixed, body tense; now he was gathering strength to spring, and now, with a splendid effort, he was actually hurling himself through the air, when among the confused figures on the coach a man leaned forward suddenly, and something flashed in his hand. There was a feather of smoke, a sharp report, and then, with a stab of pain, Coquenil saw Cæsar fall back to the ground and lie still.
"My dog, my dog!" he cried, and coming up to the stricken creature, he knelt beside him with ashen face.
One glance showed there was nothing to be done, the bullet had crashed into the broad breast in front of the left shoulder and—it was all over with Cæsar.