Yost had been relieved from his post at the mortuary to take the place of the night watchman, and McCarty walked up and down with him for more than an hour, discussing the strange chain of tragedies. All at once, as they passed the court next to the Goddard house, he heard a low, coaxing masculine voice and came upon Trafford bending over something which lay in the shadows.
“Come on, old fellow!” the tutor was saying. “Come along in the house like a good boy! Horace isn’t here, Max, it’s no good waiting—!”
“’Tis a strange acting dog and no mistake, Trafford,” McCarty remarked.
The tutor looked up.
“He’s grieving himself to death,” he said. “He hasn’t touched a morsel of food since Tuesday, though we’ve tempted him with everything, and he is so weak he can scarcely stand, but he waits about out here all the time for Horace to come home. I’ve got to get him in now if I have to carry him!”
At this juncture, however, Max rose languidly to his feet and began sniffing at McCarty’s boots, whining softly.
“’Tis like he was trying to talk!” the latter exclaimed.
“I wish he could, if he knows anything!” Trafford replied sadly. “If Horace isn’t found soon his mother will lose her mind! McCarty, can’t you people do anything? Even to know the—the worst would be better than this horrible uncertainty and suspense!”
“The lad’s disappearance is not the half of what we’re up against, Trafford,” McCarty reminded him. “We’re doing everything mortal to find him and soon, maybe to-morrow, we’re going to take a big chance.”
He watched while the tutor led the dog into the house and then shaking his head he proceeded to Orbit’s and rang the bell. It was little Fu Moy, resplendent in his embroidered serving jacket, who opened the door and without announcing him, beckoned and preceded him to the library, where the last interview had taken place.