Summoning up his sinking courage, Tad touched Renard on the arm, and said in a whisper:
"Master, where may this path lead, and what are we goin' to do?"
Renard turned upon him sharply.
"Dat's not you beezness," he replied. "You keep wid me and speak not." And taking the boys by the arm, one on each side, he strode on behind the driver and his mate, their feet making no sound on the moss-grown pathways along the deep shadows of which Paul now and again turned the light of a lantern, so that the little party could see where they were going.
Presently the copse ended in another gateway which led into a garden, and here, with flower-beds and ornamental trees all round it, in a situation which, in summer time, must have been beautiful indeed, stood an old-fashioned, quaint, two-storeyed house. A wing, on the right of the building, extended as far as what apparently was a stable yard, for it was divided from the garden by a wall and a high gate. As the men and lads stood—still within the shadow of the trees—looking about them, the deep growl and bark of a large dog sounded from the further side of the wall.
"Hark at that!" whispered Renard to Paul. "It must cease or our journey is fruitless."
"It shall cease," replied the man; "have I not come prepared?"
And he drew the parcel from his pocket, and out of it a piece of red, raw meat.
Slipping off his shoes, and signing to his companions to follow his example, he trod noiselessly across the gravel-walk, and reaching the gate in a few strides, flung the meat over.
There was a little fierce rush and growl, a savage snap of powerful jaws and click of hungry teeth, then a muffled, choking howl, a smothered groan, and silence.