"Then whatever it is, it's coming," said the bloodhound's master. "Get ready for it."
He spoke a word to the hound, which immediately settled down trustfully at the foot of the stake. He and the brothers, each armed with a shot-gun, took up a position behind a row of shrubs on the edge of the garden, and waited.
Some minutes passed; then the bloodhound stirred and whined.
"Coming," said the visitor.
The bloodhound began to growl ominously—in the moonlight they saw him bristle.
"Close by," said his master.
In the coppice in front of them they heard the faintest rustling sound as of a body being trailed over dried leaves. Then——
"The eyes!" whispered Simpson. "Look—there!"
Out of the blackness of the coppice the two gleaming eyes which the brothers had seen before shone like malignant stars. They were stationary for a moment; then, as the bloodhound's growls grew fiercer and louder they moved forward, growing larger. And presently into the light of the moon emerged a great, grey, gaunt shape, pushing itself forward on its belly, until at last it lay fully exposed, its head between its paws, its baleful eyes fixed on the hound.
"Steady!" whispered the visitor. "It'll get up—it's wondering which side to go at him from. Wait till I give the word."