"Dogs howl for the discomfort of themselves or their human friends," said the doctor. "You are not superstitious, Lady O'Gara?"
"Oh, no," she said, huddling in her fur cloak with a little shiver.
"You must believe in God or the Devil. If in God you can't admit the
Devil, who is the father of superstition as well as of lies."
"Oh, I know, I know," she said. "But, just now, I cannot bear to hear a dog howl."
On the hall table she found a telegram from Terry. He hoped to be with her by eleven o'clock.
The news from Terry turned her thoughts to Stella. For twenty-four hours she had not remembered Stella. Terry would ask first for his father and next for Stella.
She would go and ask for Stella. She turned back from the path that led to the South lodge, remembering that the gate was locked.
Patsy would have the key. She went in search of him, accompanied by the melancholy Shot and the two Poms, rescued from the kitchen regions, to which they had been banished because of their inane habit of barking with or without reason. She was grateful to the Poms, now that she was out of hearing of the sick-room, for the manner in which they leaped upon her and filled the air with their clamorous joy. There was nothing ominous about their yapping.
Patsy came to meet her as she entered the stableyard. The small neat figure had a disconsolate air. Patsy's eyes were red, his hair rumpled.
"How is he?" he asked.