--without looking up, for she felt
very giddy--and then went on down the stairs, still groping. At their
foot she took a step or two along the passage and suddenly felt the
shock of something solid and hairy against her face. She screamed out
and looked up and saw what it was that had made those ominous sounds,
that had choked out life swinging from a beam of the hall. Poor Wanda
hung dead, her head limply to one side, her tongue out, her furry paws,
that had pattered with so much energy and glee in her master's service,
dangling helplessly.

CHAPTER III

PHOEBE PAYS TOLL

When Ishmael returned a few hours later no one had thought to cut down
the body of Wanda. Everyone was too occupied with Phoebe, and those
people who had come in by the hall had merely thrust the dangling
obstruction aside and hurried on, with only a thought to it as the cause
of the trouble upstairs. Ishmael, finding his beloved dog hanging thus,
coming on it without a word of warning, felt a shock, a sense of
unbelievable outrage that made him for a moment or two think he must be
dreaming or out of his mind. He put out a hand and touched the pitiful
thing before conviction came upon him, and with a shout of rage and pain
he gathered Wanda in his arms, calling her name, hoping for a twitch of
life. Then he whipped out his knife and sawed through the cord and
lowered the body upon the floor, felt for the heart, turned up the
dropped eyelids, even shook the inanimate stiffening form of his pet. He
knew it was in vain--that never again would she jump trustingly upon
him, never again would she appear absurdly with one of his slippers in
her wide mouth that always seemed to smile at the joke, coming down the
drive to greet him; that never again would he have her for his untiring
companion on his walks or upon the plateau where he was wont to lie and
look into her wise eyes and talk to her without fear of contradiction,
receiving that full measure of admiration and belief that only a dog
gives. So much was his grief, but overpowering that simpler emotion was
a sick rage. The knowledge that rough, brutal hands must have carried
out this outrage, that in an agony of fear and astonishment she must
have yielded up her breath, struck at his heart. He got to his feet, and
carrying the body into the parlour, laid it down, then went through to
the kitchen. The dairymaid was standing over a kettle of water that was
heating on the fire; the other maid sto