“Ruf!”
He had turned into the new highway some time ago, and was driving along it at a brisk sixty-five. Now, disbelievingly, he slowed, and pulled over onto the shoulder. Sure enough, he had a stowaway in the back seat—a tawny-haired stowaway with golden eyes, over-sized ears, and a restless, white-tipped tail. “Zarathustra!” he gasped. “How in the dickens did you get in there?”
“Ruf,” Zarathustra replied.
Philip groaned. Now he would have to go all the way back to Valleyview. Now he would have to see Judith Darrow again. Now he would have to—He paused in midthought, astonished at the abrupt acceleration of his heartbeat. “Well I'll be damned!” he said, and without further preamble transferred Zarathustra to the front seat, U-turned, and started back.
The gasoline lantern had been moved out of the living-room window, but a light still showed beyond the panes. He pulled over to the curb and turned off the ignition. He gave one of Zarathustra's over-sized ears a playful tug, absently noting a series of small nodules along its lower extremity. “Come on, Zarathustra,” he said. “I may as well deliver you personally while I'm at it.”
After locking the car, he started up the walk, Zarathustra at his heels. He knocked on the front door. Presently he knocked again. The door creaked, swung partially open. He frowned. Had she forgotten to latch it? he wondered. Or had she deliberately left it unlatched so that Zarathustra could get in? Zarathustra himself lent plausibility to the latter conjecture by rising up on his hind legs and pushing the door the rest of the way open with his forepaws, after which he trotted into the hall and disappeared.
Philip pounded on the panels. “Miss Darrow!” he called. “Judith!”
No answer. He called again. Still no answer.
A summer breeze came traipsing out of the house and engulfed him in the scent of roses. What kind of roses? he wondered. Green ones?