Our most solemn and most trivial thoughts always run along the grooves of the mind together, and as Geoffrey passed round the house he caught himself wondering where the dog was. He whistled again and again. It was a most unusual thing for Tut to be far from the family. Outside the morning room window the dog lay as if fast asleep.
"Get up, your lazy beast," Geoffrey cried; "after them, sir."
But the dog did not move; he made no sign as Geoffrey cuffed him with the side of his foot. The dog was dead.
He lay still and placid; there was no sign of pain. There was nothing about the carcass to suggest poison. Close by the bees were busy among the flowers. In the hives there seemed to be more noise than usual. Geoffrey opened the windows of the morning-room, leaving the casement flung back behind him. A long claw was put forth to shut it.
"The window must be kept closed," Ralph Ravenspur said quietly. "In fact, I have given orders that every window in the house is to be closed. Why, you will see presently. Did you notice anything as you came along?"
"I was too excited," Geoffrey replied. "I have just found poor Tut outside. The dog has died suddenly. Half an hour ago he was perfectly well, young, full of life and vigor. And now he is dead."
"Lies just outside the window, doesn't he?" Ralph asked.
He seemed to speak callously. A man who had passed through his experiences and emotions was not likely to feel for the loss of a dog. And yet there was intense curiosity in his tone.
"Just outside; close to the hives."