A form glided out from the gloom of a dark corner, and with a swift, noiseless leap, bounded upon him.
The secret service man probably owed his life to one fact. He had been a telegraph operator in his time, and the wonderful business had sharpened his ears so much, that, even the very slightest sound became audible to him.
What he heard on this occasion was the sound of the flying foe.
The latter rushing swiftly through the air made but little noise, but that noise was sufficient to attract the attention of Barry Brown’s quick ears.
Merely from the force of a long-practiced habit the detective dropped to the ground, and the flying form shot over him.
It was a huge hound, one of that silent, deadly race that destroy without uttering a single sound.
In a moment the dog turned and made for him again, but Barry Brown did not dodge this time.
He’d met with four-footed enemies before this, and he knew how to battle with them.
In his right hand he grasped a cruel-looking bowie.
His left arm was wrapped in the folds formed by the tail of his coat.