ed. "You know that, you
who are of the profession, as they say. Such ruffians would have knocked
the young gentleman on the head to keep him quiet, and would have made
off. And besides, we should have found their tracks in the sand, and
Nino would have smelt them."

Nino pricked up one ragged ear at the sound of his name.

"He does not look very intelligent," observed the official. "A clever
dog might have been used to track the boy."

"How?" inquired Ercole with scorn. "The footsteps of the young gentleman
were everywhere, with those of all the family, who were always coming
and going about here. How could he track them, or any of us? But he
would have smelt a stranger, even if it had rained. I know this dog. He
is the head dog on the Roman shore. There is no other dog like him."

"I daresay not," assented the Chief of Police, looking at Nino. "In
fact, he is not like any animal I ever saw."

The detectives laughed at this.

"There is no other," said Ercole without a smile. "He is the only son of
a widowed mother. I am his family, and he is my family, and we live in
good understanding in this desert. If there were no fever we should be
like the saints in paradise--eating our corn meal together. And I will
tell you another thing. If the young gentleman had been wounded anywhere
near here, Nino would have found the blood even after three days. As for
a dead man, he would make a point for him and howl half a mile off,
unless the wind was the wrong way."

"Would he really?" asked Corbario with a little interest.

Ercole looked at him and nodded, but said no more, and presently the
whole party of men went back to Rome, leaving him to the loneliness of
the sand-banks and the sea.

Then Ercole came back to the gap and stood still a little while, and
his dog sat bolt upright beside him.

"Nino," he said at last, in a rather regretful tone, "I gave you a good
character. What could I say before those gentlemen? But I tell you this,
you are growing old. And don't answer that I am getting old too, for
that is my business. If your nose were what it was once, we should know
the truth by this time. Smell that!"

Ercole produced a small green morocco pocket-book, of the sort made to
hold a few visiting cards and a little paper money, and held it to
Nino's muzzle.

Nino smelt it, looked up to his master's face inquiringly, smelt it
again, and then, as if to explain that it did not interest him, lay down
in the sand with