“But you believe there’s a chance, don’t you?”
“Y-es,” she admitted reluctantly. “There’s a chance to save him.”
“Tell me about it.” She said nothing. “Please, do. It may help wonderfully. I must get clues everywhere.”
“I’ll tell you this much,” she came to a decision. “You go on with your theory of boats and racing and all that. You may succeed. Lord knows I hope so. If you fail, come to me. I have a theory, too——”
“Why not try yours first?”
“No—oh, no!” she protested. “It wouldn’t work that way. If you fail—then I’ll try my medicine. And the best of luck to you, Richard Richard.”
The moaning yelp of a dog on the scent broke into the conversation.
“That’s ‘Count’!” said Jerry. “He’s after me. Someone must have let him loose.” The baying broke forth near at hand. There was a terrific swish of nearby bushes, then a huge liver-and-white pointer nosed into the cottage and leaped upon Jerry, whining and talking frantically. She had to beat him down.
“Charge!” she called again before he dropped at her feet and half chewed at her moccasins.
“Why, I believe the pup is crying,” said Phœbe. It seemed so. His brown eyes looked pathetically tearful.