The next minute, with the dog barking loudly, the Major and his daughter stood in the garden, listening to the regular beat-beat of feet as the two men went along the stony path, the sounds growing fainter and fainter, dying away, coming again, and finally dying out for good.

"Poor lad! I hope it is nothing very serious," said the Major. "Good heavens! what is the matter with the dog?"

For suddenly as they stood there, the animal gave vent to a piteous, heartrending cry, which sent a thrill through the hearers. It was followed by another less wild and strange, and then came a quick scuffling sound, and the noise of the rattling of the chain.

"Back directly, my dear," said the Major, and he hurried round to the other side of the cottage, leaving Dinah standing on the little lawn.

She took a step to follow, but at that moment there was a slight rustling sound from the bushes close at hand, and she stood as if petrified.

But only for a few moments, for directly after her father's voice came loudly--

"Dinah! Quick! Bring a light."

Before she could reach the little drawing-room a light flashed out from the door, and Martha, who had heard the words, appeared bringing a lamp.

"Don't be frightened, Miss Dinah," she said, as her arm was caught, and they hurried on together to where the dog's piteous whines could be heard; "the poor thing must be in a fit."

She was quite right, but it was a fit of agony--the last, for as they reached the kennel where the Major knelt on one knee, the poor dog uttered one short gasping bark, as it stretched itself out more and more, and then there was a sudden s.n.a.t.c.hing, quivering motion, and it seemed to be drawn backward till it formed a curve.

"Father! Oh, poor Rollo!" cried Dinah, going down upon her knees by her old companion's side; "he is dying."

"No, my child," said the Major sternly; and he drew in his breath with a low hiss, and bent down and softly patted the poor beast's head, smoothing the long silky ears, "he is dead."

"Dead!" cried Dinah wildly, as she sank upon her knees, and lifted the dog's head into her lap. "Impossible!"

But the heavy, motionless weight endorsed the Major's words. There was no joyous movement, no nestling toward her, no gladsome, whining bark; Rollo had had his last gambol over the mountain side, and lay slowly stiffening out, with eyes glazing and seeming to gaze mournfully up at her he had loved so well.

"Oh, sir," cried Martha piteously, "I have been so careful, but he would take them. I always felt sure he would be choked by some bone."

"Choked!" cried the Major angrily; "the poor brute has been poisoned for doing his duty too well."

"Poisoned!" cried Martha, as Dinah looked up wildly at her father.

"Impossible, sir. I've kept it in a bottle tied down and locked up where no one could find it but myself."

"Kept what?" cried the Major.

"The a.r.s.enic for the rats, sir."

"But this is something worse, woman. There is no doubt about it. There are the signs. Some scoundrel has given him strychnia, and it must be one of those ruffians from the mine."

A low, piteous sigh escaped from Dinah's lips, as she softly laid the dog's head on the stones, and then with a quick glance of apprehension, she rose and took hold of her father's arm.

"Yes, my dear," he said. "Poor Rollo was too true a servant, and watched for the pitiful purloiner. Now let him beware of my gun, for, by Jove, if I find any marauding scoundrel within shot, he shall certainly have the contents."

Dinah said no word, but as Martha stood there holding the lamp, the light shone upon her dilated eyes, and lit up her white, contracted face, which seemed to have grown suddenly hard and stern. It was as if her father's words had sent a sense of satisfaction through her, and she was looking out into the darkness of the night for the cowardly wretch who had robbed her of another friend, that he might come on once more and meet his fate.

She shivered the next moment, and clung to her father's arm.

"I mean it," he said fiercely. "I am a peaceful, quiet man, but I can be roused to action, and then--"

He looked at Martha with his eyes flashing, and a fierce glow in his face that transformed him at once into the old man of war.

"Master!" whispered the old servant, with a low sob, and there was an appeal in her tones which seemed to calm him.

"Yes," he said, as he gazed straight away into the darkness. "Whoever did this deed is mistaken in his man."

A sigh escaped from Dinah's lips, and she drew herself up as she clung more tightly to her father. Two of her protectors gone that night, but there was still a third, and a feeling of confidence strengthened her heart as she gripped her father's arm.

"Sooner or later I shall square accounts with this man," said the Major, as he walked slowly toward the door. "Oh, if I only knew!"

"If I only knew. If I only knew!" The words kept on repeating themselves in Dinah's brain as she sought her room that night, till she found herself repeating them--"If he only knew--if he only knew!"

She had not commenced undressing, and in her agitated, nervous state every sound about the house attracted her attention, so that she listened eagerly as she suddenly heard a light tapping sound, followed by--"Yes, sir, what is it?"

"I didn't want to disturb you, Martha; but have you moved my gun?"

"No, sir. It's in the corner of your study between the window and the bookcase."

"No, it is not there, but I am certain it was this afternoon."

"I'm sure it was there to-night, sir, just before Mr Reed went away."

"Very well, good-night," said the Major; and he went back into the little study, and looked carefully round again.

"Why, of course!" he exclaimed, "I must have stood it in my room."

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

THE TARE SOWING.

A man was going through the street with his pole extinguishing the gas lamps, as the hansom cab bearing Clive Reed went along at a sharp trot toward Russell Square. The waning light looked ghastly and strange, and well in keeping with his anxious state of mind, for in spite of all his genuine love for Dinah, it was impossible not to feel a thrill of misery akin to despair when reminded of one with whom so much of his boyhood and the later past had been mingled.

"Poor, pa.s.sionate, weak girl!" he said to himself again and again, as he journeyed on, and his heart was full of sympathy for her and indignation against his brother, whom he connected with the trouble, whatever it might be.

"Sick unto death," he muttered. "Heartbroken and despairing after finding him out. Oh, how can a man be so base?"

Then all kinds of projects had flashed across his mind as to what might be done. Janet would certainly separate sooner or later from Jessop, and when she did, as the Doctor had intimated, she would return to her old home, and then why should not Dinah help him to soften her hard lot?

"No," he said, directly after. "It would be madness--impossible.

Janet's is not the nature to a.s.similate with Dinah's. I am not so weak and blind to all her faults as I was then. Poor girl! Poor girl! Her life wrecked, and by my own brother too."

At last!

The cab drew up at the great blank-looking door of the Doctor's house, and Clive leaped out, paid the man, and hurried up the broad steps in the cold, grey morning. How many times, full of expectation and delight, he had hurried to that door bearing presents or bouquets; and now he was there once more--to hear what news of the bright, handsome girl whom he had made his idol from a boy?

His hand was upon the heavy knocker, but it dropped to his side, and he rang the night-bell, and then stood listening to the distant wheels of the cab in which he had come.

"Who is it?" came in a husky whisper from the mouth of the speaking-tube, and he answered back--