IN THE HOUSE NEXT TO ME WAS A FINE LITTLE TOY SPANIEL CALLED AMARILLA
Amarilla had a very gentle, clinging sort of an odour. She was an exquisitely clean little dog, but no matter how clean dogs or human beings may be, they cannot get rid of what Gringo calls their odoriferosity. He vows he can track his master if he touches a thing.
Well, I was very much excited when I scented Amarilla. The poor old lady who owned her was quite childish, and she actually died of grief over the disappearance of her dog. It would be a great feather in my cap to track her. Yes, and get caught myself, my native caution whispered to me.
I surveyed the scene—a vaudeville house on a quiet, narrow street, enormously high buildings each side—a fine place for a getaway as Gringo calls a scamper from danger—well, I would risk something for Amarilla.
The show had been going on for a little time, for it was quite a bit after eight, and very often the door opened and persons came out—presumably those who had played their part for the last time and were going home. So, if I ran in the door, and was cautious, I would stand a good chance of getting out again.
I seized my opportunity and bolted in when an enormously fat lady in a light evening cloak came out, and entered a taxi-cab that had been standing by the curbstone.
Now I was inside the door, and what did I see—a bare, narrow hallway, and some steps. I crept cautiously up the steps, nosing and smelling various odours, animals, sawdust, straw, stale food, and waves of heat from some badly ventilated hall.
Ah! here my suggestion of Amarilla stopped—it was a medium-sized, untidy kind of basement room, with boxes littered about—travelling boxes of animals. All were empty. The animals must be on the stage with their trainer, but if Amarilla was on the stage, why was the room so strongly reminiscent of her?
Amarilla was not on the stage. I followed my nose to a corner, and there was the dear little thing, crouching low, her pretty open face, like a child’s, all distorted by fear.