“Two hours,” Dr. Stone said as though speaking to himself. Abruptly he jerked his head. “Time we had breakfast,” he added, and boy and dog followed at his heels. Here, in the home of his widowed sister that had sheltered him for five years, he knew his way perfectly, and there was nothing to mark him out as blind as he walked boldly toward the dining room. And yet at the last moment, his handicap touched him with uncertainty. He had to put out his hand to make sure of the table and then fumble for his chair.
Joe wondered about jails, and was sorry for Donovan. Twice the man had picked him up on the road and carried him into the village, and once he had spent a fascinating afternoon in the Kent garage holding tools while the chauffeur worked on the car. Did they lock a prisoner in a cell and keep him there night and day?
His mother’s voice cut through his thoughts. “You’re going over, David?”
“I have a reason for wanting to go,” the man said.
Joe’s heart throbbed. A reason for going. His throat was husky again. “Right away, Uncle David? A policeman has to get there while the trail is hot, doesn’t he?”
“There are some trails,” Dr. Stone said in his slow drawl, “that do not grow cold.”
Out on the porch he filled a pipe and smoked quietly. Joe, watching that lion head topped by crisp, unruly white hair, wondered if his uncle ever became excited. He fidgeted and watched a clock; and by and by Dr. Stone knocked the ashes from his pipe, stood up, and took a dog’s harness down from a nail.
The dog stretched its great body and held out its head. A stiff leash rose from either side of the harness and joined a wide, hard handle-grip at the top.
“Lady, forward!”
Slowly, protectingly, the massive animal took Dr. Stone down the steps and along the concrete walk to the road.