CHAPTER XLVII
TRIUMPHANT
The day after the attack on the Manor-house Ursula came down to breakfast as usual.
“Has Monk not been found yet?” she asked.
In the servant’s face she read disaster. She had not missed any of the menials in the hour of danger, presuming them to be hidden away under bedsteads up-stairs, but she had been astonished by the prolonged absence of the dog.
“Yes, Monk had been found,” said the servant, uneasily.
She cast a quick glance at his shifty eyes; then, without further question, she went down to the basement, straight to the mat where the St. Bernard slept. Monk was lying there, in a great huddled mass of brown and white wool, motionless. Before she had come near she knew he was dead. She stood for a moment by his side. Already the limbs were stiffened, the eyes rolled back. She understood that he had been decoyed the day before, and poisoned.
She knelt down and kissed the soft, white head.
“I used to think I was alone,” she said, as she rose.