I ran down the veranda steps, and put my muzzle close to his. “Lie down, and out with it,” I said.
He flopped on the gravel beside King Harry. Now our heads were all together—the bloodhound’s dome, my sloping head and strong, muscular jaws, and Cannie’s hairy nose.
“Something’s gone wrong,” he said with his strong, Scottish accent. “I was wandering down yon by the alders near the river, when I heard a furious noise of something being driven hard. It was an automobile coming from New York way. It stopped short when it got near me, and turned in among the alders. I scampered out of the way, and a man hid it in off the road. Then he sprang out, and tore up across the turnip field toward Gringo’s house. I was too far off to smell him, but I got a verra uneasy impression.”
He stopped, and both dogs looked at me. I had been with the Grantons longer than they had, and they were waiting for my advice.
I was puzzled. “If it were an ordinary case of big country-houses and rich people,” I said, “I would imagine it an attempt at burglary. But you say the man was alone.”
“Stark alone,” said Cannie.
“And he left his car there?”
“Yes, down yon,” said the little dog, nodding toward Pleasant River.
“You see,” I went on, “master and mistress and the Bonstones haven’t anything worth stealing, but grandfathers’ clocks, and pianos, and old furniture. They’ve given away jewelry and silver, and anything that would tempt their fellow-men. However, it’s our duty to investigate. Lead on, Cannie.”
He galloped ahead with King Harry, and I paused an instant and listened.