"Yep. That's the one," replied Charlie harshly. "Anybody that would poison a dog ought to be tarred and feathered."
"Who did it?"
"You don't suppose a man mean enough to give an unsuspectin' dog a dose of poison would be kind enough to pin his card on the gatepost, do you? I should say not!"
"But why on earth should any one want to poison that big beautiful dog?" cried Courtney indignantly. "Had he bitten anybody?"
"Not as anybody knows of. Henry says he never harmed a living soul. That dog—"
"By George!" exclaimed Courtney suddenly. "This reminds me of something. I passed a couple of men last night down at the corner where you turn up to Miss Crown's. They were leaning against the fence on the opposite side of the road, and I had the queerest sort of feeling about them. I felt that they were watching me. I remember turning my head to look back at them. They were still standing there. It was too dark to see what they looked like—"
"Wait a second," broke in Charlie. "Here's Bill Foss, the constable. Tell it to him, Court."
The town constable, vastly excited, came up the street, accompanied by two or three stern-visaged citizens.
"Well, by thunder!" growled the officer, wiping his forehead. "Somebody's been making a wholesale job of it. Dick Hurdle's 'Jackie' and Bert Little's 'Prince' are dead as doornails. That makes three. Now, who the hell,—"
"Just a second,—just a second," cried A. Lincoln Pollock, elbowing his way into the thick of the new group. "Let me get the facts. You first, Dick. Where did you find your dog's remains? Now, take it calm, Dick. Don't cuss like that. I can't print a word of it, you know,—not a word. Remember there are ladies present, Dick. You've got to—"