Bosworth sat down dismayed. His father swore softly and drew his feet a bit nearer to the legs of the chair. Both of them knew the dog. They knew, moreover, that the only living creature in the whole world exempt from peril was the beast's mistress, the fair lady to whom they had come to pay coincidental devoirs. All other persons came under the head of prey, so far as Agrippa was concerned—Agrippa being the somewhat ominous name of the pet.
"How—how does he happen to be loose?" murmured Bosworth, with a side glance at the detective.
"Is he dangerous?" asked Mr. Doxey.
"He's a man-eater," said the other, quite uncomfortably.
"Nobody told me about a watchdog."
"Ah, now I understand why he's loose," said Bosworth, promptly. Mr. Doxey looked thoughtful for a moment, and then opened his lips to resent the imputation, half rising from his chair to obtain greater emphasis in his delivery.
Agrippa emitted a prophetic growl. Mr. Doxey resumed his seat in some haste.
"Will he bite?" he demanded instead.
"Bite? Hang it all, man, he'll chew us to ribbons if we move. I—I know that dog. We don't dare to twiddle until Mrs. Scoville comes in to call him off. He's got us treed, that's all there is to it. I wouldn't move my little finger for fifty dollars cash. Look at his eyes! Observe the size of his incisors!"
"I believe you," said Mr. Doxey, with a belated shudder.