the trees of the park, and continued to watch me
without moving. I looked back at him for a time, to see if the sense
that he was being watched would not rouse him. Half the width of the
court lay between us, and we stared at each other silently across it.
But he did not stir, and at last I turned away. Behind me I found the
rest of the pack, with a newcomer added: a small black greyhound with
pale agate-coloured eyes. He was shivering a little, and his expression
was more timid than that of the others. I noticed that he kept a little
behind them. And still there was not a sound.

I stood there for fully five minutes, the circle about me--waiting, as
they seemed to be waiting. At last I went up to the little golden-brown
dog and stooped to pat him. As I did so, I heard myself laugh. The
little dog did not start, or growl, or take his eyes from me--he simply
slipped back about a yard, and then paused and continued to look at me.
"Oh, hang it!" I exclaimed aloud, and walked across the court toward the
well.

As I advanced, the dogs separated and slid away into different corners
of the court. I examined the urns on the well, tried a locked door or
two, and up and down the dumb facade; then I faced about toward the
chapel. When I turned I perceived that all the dogs had disappeared
except the old pointer, who still watched me from the empty
window-frame. It was rather a relief to be rid of that cloud of
witnesses; and I began to look about me for a way to the back of the
house. "Perhaps there'll be somebody in the garden," I thought. I found
a way across the moat, scrambled over a wall smothered in brambles, and
got into the garden. A few lean hydrangeas and geraniums pined in the
flower-beds, and the ancient house looked down on them indifferently.
Its garden side was plainer and severer than the other: the long
granite front, with its few windows and steep roof, looked like
a fortress-prison. I walked around the farther wing, went up some
disjointed steps, and entered the deep twilight of a narrow and
incredibly old box-walk. The walk was just wide enough for one person to
slip through, and its branches met overhead. It was like the ghost of a
box-walk, its lustrous green all turning to the shadowy greyness of the
avenues. I walked on and on, the branches hitting me in the face and
springing back with a dry rattle; and at length I came out on the grassy
top of the chemin de ronde. I walked along it to the gate-tower, loo