“Only the dog!” he mutters, perceiving Clancy’s hound at a distance, among the trees.
On its master being shot down, the animal had scampered off—perhaps fearing a similar fate. It had not gone far, and is now returning—by little and little, drawing nearer to the dangerous spot.
The creature seems struggling between two instincts—affection for its fallen master, and fear for itself.
As Darke’s gun is empty, he endeavours to entice the dog within reach of his knife. Despite his coaxing, it will not come!
Hastily ramming a cartridge into the right-hand barrel, he aims, and fires.
The shot takes effect; the ball passing through the fleshy part of the dog’s neck. Only to crease the skin, and draw forth a spurt of blood.
The hound hit, and further frightened, gives out a wild howl, and goes off, without sign of return.
Equally wild are the words that leap from the lips of Richard Darke, as he stands gazing after.
“Great God!” he cries; “I’ve done an infernal foolish thing. The cur will go home to Clancy’s house. That’ll tell a tale, sure to set people searching. Ay, and it may run back here, guiding them to the spot. Holy hell!”
While speaking, the murderer turns pale. It is the first time for him to experience real fear. In such an out-of-the-way place he has felt confident of concealing the body, and along with it the bloody deed. Then, he had not taken the dog into account, and the odds were in his favour. Now, with the latter adrift, they are heavily against him.