CHAPTER XVII.
A CRISIS.
The bloodhound continued to sniff and growl.
Patsy continued to lie low and hold his breath.
He knew that if he showed himself in the open there would be trouble from that moment—and the worst kind of trouble.
He hoped that the fierce brute would presently have satisfied his curiosity, and then take it into his ugly head to return out of doors.
But the dog did nothing of the kind.
Plainly enough, he knew that there was something wrong, and his watch-dog instinct impelled him to hang about the suspected spot.
He fell to trotting to and fro near the back of the touring-car, over a space of some six feet, like an irritated lion in a cage.