“Look here, sir. This dog has been lying half dead ever since the disappearance of that man.”
“Yes.”
“What does he do as soon as he encounters Saul Harrington?”
“Fly at him.”
“Yes. Why should he? Surely he has not been in the habit of trying to get at the throat of a relative and visitor of the house.”
“That’s quite true; certainly.”
“You see the dog is as gentle with us as can be. Go to him yourself, and pat him.”
“I hardly—Yes, I will,” said the old man, mastering his dislike and dread; and, taking a couple of steps forward, he patted the dog’s head. “Why, Bruno, old dog, what’s the matter?” he said in an awe-stricken whisper.
The dog swung round, looked at him, barked loudly, then rose up at him, placing his paws on his shoulders, and howled mournfully.
“There, you see,” said George, laying his hand on the dog’s head. “Mad? No more than we are.”