As the day advanced, Ross’s apathy left him. He grew strangely restless, and like a caged animal paced from one end of the cabin to the other. Bradford noted his companion’s changed mood, but said nothing. By four o’clock it was growing dusk. Douglas suddenly picked up his hat and started for the door.
“Where are you going?” Bradford inquired.
“For a walk,” was the non-committal reply.
Duke arose, stretched himself, yawned, and rubbed against his master’s legs.
“Surely you’re not going out in such a rain,” Bradford remarked. “You’ll get wet to the skin.”
“What’s a little rain to a man who has spent his days in the open air,” Douglas returned quickly, still moving toward the doorway.
“Wait!”
And Bradford sprang to his feet and placed himself in front of the other, his broad back against the closed door.
“What do you mean?” Ross cried, drawing himself up stiffly.
It was a strange scene. The flickering firelight alone lighted the black interior and outlined the forms and faces of the two men. The bloodhound stood looking from one to the other. Outside, the rain fell and the wind soughed fitfully.