“Fritz!” I called, then whistled. No answer. Dead silence. Fairly puzzled now, I ran on. Then thinking that I had gone too far, I wheeled round and went back towards the terrace, walking slowly, and looking well about me. Suddenly in the semi-darkness I sprang forward with a cry of anger. The mystery of the silence at least was solved.
This is what I came upon.
An overthrown scarecrow, and Fritz lying stretched on the ground beside it. I called him, although something told me it was useless, he would never move again. So it was. There was a great wound in his throat, and his head lay in a pool of blood.
What had happened? I jumped up and looked round, pulling out my revolver. I listened intently. Not a sound. I ran down the field to the road, keeping as sharp a look-out as was possible. No one was to be seen. I broke through the hedge and searched the bank of the river, but with no greater result. Then returning to the sloping field, I beat the hedges that crossed it, but came across neither man nor beast.
So at last there was nothing for it but to abandon the search, and take in the uncomfortable tidings to Von Lindheim, since there was no chance of hiding them from him, Fritz being his favourite companion. Both men were greatly perturbed.
“Don’t let us alarm ourselves unnecessarily,” I said. “Poor Fritz may have fallen a victim to one of his natural enemies—a boar from the forest. At the same time it might be wise for us to accept it as a sign of danger.”
For I had little doubt in my own mind that the unfortunate dog’s death-wound had been given by no boar’s tusk, but by a human hand.
CHAPTER XIII
THE STONE SARCOPHAGUS