"He's had plenty of time to get round," remarked Lord Lathon, throwing down his gun. "Perhaps he's resting."
Mr. Thurwell shook his head.
"No; he wouldn't do that," he said. "He was as keen about getting here as any of us. Hark! what was that?"
A faint sound was borne across the moor on the lazily stirring breeze. Helen, whose hearing was very keen, started, and the little party exchanged uneasy glances.
"It must have been a sea-gull," remarked Lord Lathon, who wanted his luncheon very badly indeed. "We'd better not wait for him. He'll turn up all right; Geoffrey always does. Come——"
He broke off suddenly in his speech and listened. There was another sound, and this time there was no mistake about it. It was the low, prolonged howl of a spaniel—a mournful sound which struck a strange note in the afternoon stillness. There was breathless silence for a moment amongst the little group, and the becoming glow died out of Helen's cheek.
Rachel Kynaston was the first to recover herself.
"Had Sir Geoffrey a dog with him, Heggs?" she asked quickly.
"Yes, miss," the man answered. "His favorite spaniel had got unchained somehow, and found us on the moor. I saw her at heel when he left us. She was very quiet, and Sir Geoffrey wouldn't have her sent back."
"Then something has happened to him!" she cried. "That was Fido's howl."