This is done successfully, the Fiend is a good quick valet-fiend to-night and aids at every point.
The gate is closed with a gentle "click," there is only the "pad, pad" of the night-comer's footsteps passing along the dark village street towards the Old House with poison in his pocket and murder in his heart.
Outside his own gate, Lothian's feet assume a brisk and confidential measure. He rattles the latch of the drive gate and tries to whistle in a blithe undertone.
Bedroom windows may be open, it will be as well that his low, contented whistle—as of one returning from healthy night-sport—may be heard.
His lips are too cracked and salt to whistle, however. He tries to hum the burden of a song, but only a faint "croak, croak," sounds in the cold, quiet night—for the wind has fallen now.
Not far away, behind the palings of his little yard, The Dog Trust whines mournfully.
Once he whines, and then with a full-throat and opened muzzle Dog Trust bays the moon behind its cloud-pall.
When he hears the footfall of one he knows and loves, Dog Trust greets it with low, anxious whines.
He is no watch-dog. His simple duties are unvaried from the marsh and field. Growl of hostility to night-comers he knows not. His faithful mind has been attuned to no reveillé note.
But he howls mournfully now.