When I returned to the city next morning I took my dog. It was a strange
whim; but one which was to lead to a remarkable development. I have
always been a lover of dogs. I was lonely. There is a bond between a dog
and his master. It goes beyond definition; it roots down into nature. I
was to learn much.
She was an Australian shepherd. She was of a tawny black and bob-tailed
from birth.
What is the power that lies behind instinct? How far does it go? I had
a notion that the dog would be outside the sinister clutch that was
dragging me under.
Happily Jerome was fond of dogs. He was reading. When I entered with
Queen tugging at the chain he looked up. The dog recognised the heart
of the man; when he stooped to pet her she moved her stub tail in an
effusion of affectionate acceptance. Jerome had been reading Le Bon's
theory on the evolution of force. His researches after the mystery had
led him into the depths of speculation; he had become quite a scholar.
After our first greeting I unhooked the chain and let Queen have the
freedom of the house. I related what had happened. The detective closed
the book and sat down. The dog waited a bit for further petting; but
missing that she began sniffing about the room. There was nothing
strange about it of course. I myself paid not the slightest attention.
But the detective was watching. While I was telling my story he was
following every movement of the shepherd. Suddenly he held up one
finger. I turned.
It was Queen. A low growl, guttural and suspicious. She was standing
about a foot from the portieres that separated the library from the
other room--where we had lost Watson, and where Jerome had had his
experience with the old lady. Tense and rigid, one forepaw held up
stealthily, her stub tail erect and the hair along her back bristled.
Again the low growl. I caught Jerome's eyes. It was queer.
“What is it, Queen?” I spoke.
At the sound of my voice she wagged her tail and looked round, then
stepped between the curtains. Just her head. She drew back; her lips
drawn from her teeth, snarling. She was rigid, alert, vitalised. Somehow
it made me cold. She was a brave dog; she feared nothing. The detective
stepped forward and pulled the curtains apart. The room was empty. We
looked into each other's faces. What is there to instinct? What is its
range? We could see nothing.
But not to the dog. Her eyes glowed. Hate, fear, terror, her whole body
rigid.
“I wonder,” I said. I stepped into the room. But I hadn't counted on the
dog. With a yelp she was upon me, had me by the calf of the leg and was
drawing me back. She stepped in front of me; a low, guttural growl of
warning. But there was nothing in that room; of that we were certain.
“Beats me,” said the detective. “How does she know? Wonder if she would
stop me?” He stepped forward. It was merely a repetition. She caught
him by the trouser-leg and drew him back. She crowded us away from the
curtain. It was almost magnetic. We could see nothing, neither could we
feel; was it possible that the dog could see beyond us? The detective
spoke first:
“Take her out of the room. Put her in the hall; tie her up.”
“What's the idea?”
“Merely this; I am going to examine the room. No, I am not afraid. I'll
be mighty glad if it does catch me. Anything so long as I get results.”
But it did us no good. We examined the room many times that night; both
of us. In the end there was nothing, only the weirdness and uncertainty
and the magnetic undercurrent which we could feel, but could not fathom.
When we called in the dog she stepped to the portieres and commenced her
vigil. She crouched slightly behind the curtains, alert, ready, waiting,
at her post of honour. From that moment she never left the spot except
under compulsion. We could hear her at all times of the night; the low
growl, the snarl, the defiance.
But there was a great deal more that we were to learn from the dog. It
was Jerome who first called my attention. A small fact at the beginning;
but of a strange sequence. This time it was the ring. Queen had the
habit that is common to most dogs; she would lick my hand to show her
affection. It was nothing in itself; but for one fact--she always chose
the left hand. It was the detective who first noticed it. Always and
every opportunity she would lick the jewel. We made a little test to try
her. I would remove the ring from one hand to the other; then hold it
behind me. She would follow.
It was a strange fact; but of course not inexplicable. A scent or the
attraction of taste might account for it. However, these little tests
led to a rather remarkable discovery.
One night we had called the dog from her vigil. As usual she came to
the jewel; by chance I pressed the gem against her head. It was a mere
trifle; yet it was of consequence. A few minutes before I had dropped a
handkerchief on the opposite side of the room; I was just thinking about
picking it up. It was only a small thing, yet it put us on the track
of the gem's strangest potency. The dog walked to the handkerchief. She
brought it back in her mouth. At first I took it for a pure coincidence.
I repeated the experiment with a book. The same result. I looked up at
Jerome.
“What's the matter?” Then when I explained: “The dickens! Try it again.”
Over and over again we repeated it, using different articles, pieces of
which I was certain she didn't know the name. There was a strange bond
between the gem and the intelligence, some strange force emanating from
its lustre. On myself it was depressing; on the dog it was life itself.
At last Jerome had an inspiration.
“Try the Rhamda,” he said; “think of him. Perhaps--”
It was most surprising. Certainly it was remarkable. It was too much
like intelligence; a bit too uncanny. At the instant of the thought the
dog leaped backward.
Such a strange transformation; she was naturally gentle. In one
instant she had gone mad. Mad? Not in the literal interpretation; but
figuratively. She sprang back, snapping; her teeth bared, her hair
bristled. Her nostrils drawn. With one bound she leaped between the
curtains.
Jerome jumped up. With an exclamation he drew the portieres. I was
behind him. The dog was standing at the edge of the room, bristling.
The room was empty. What did she see? What?
One thing was certain. Though we were sure of nothing else we were
certain of the Rhamda. We could trust the canine's instinct. Every
previous experiment we had essayed had been crowned with success. We had
here a fact but no explanation. If we could only put things together and
extract the law.
It was late when we retired. I could not sleep. The restlessness of the
dog held back my slumber. She would growl sullenly, then stir about for
a new position; she was never quite still. I could picture her there
in the library, behind the curtains, crouched, half resting, half
slumbering, always watching. I would awaken in the night and listen; a
low guttural warning, a sullen whine--then stillness. It was the same
with my companion. We could never quite understand it. Perhaps we were a
bit afraid.
But one can become accustomed to almost anything. It went on for many
nights without anything happening, until one night.
It was dark, exceedingly dark, with neither moon nor starlight; one of
those nights of inky intenseness. I cannot say just exactly what woke
me. The house was strangely silent and still; the air seemed stretched
and laden. It was summer. Perhaps it was the heat. I only knew that I
woke suddenly and blinked in the darkness.
In the next room with the door open I could hear the heavy breathing
of the detective. A heavy feeling lay against my heart. I had grown
accustomed to dread and isolation; but this was different. Perhaps
it was premonition. I do not know. And yet I was terribly sleepy; I
remember that.
I struck a match and looked at my watch on the bureau--twelve
thirty-five. No sound--not even Queen--not even a rumble from the
streets. I lay back and dropped into slumber. Just as I drifted off to
sleep I had a blurring fancy of sound, guttural, whining, fearful--then
suddenly drifting into incoherent rumbling phantasms--a dream. I awoke
suddenly. Someone was speaking. It was Jerome.
“Harry!”
I was frightened. It was like something clutching out of the darkness.
I sat up. I didn't answer. It wasn't necessary. The incoherence of my
dream had been external. The library was just below me. I could hear the
dog pacing to and fro, and her snarling. Snarling? It was just that. It
was something to arouse terror.
She had never growled like that--I was positive, I could hear her
suddenly leap back from the curtains. She barked. Never before had she
come to that. Then a sudden lunge into the other room--a vicious series
of snapping barks, yelps--pandemonium--I could picture her leaping--at
what? Then suddenly I leaped out of bed. The barks grew faint, faint,
fainter--into the distance.
In the darkness I couldn't find the switch. I bumped into Jerome. We
were lost in our confusion. It was a moment before we could find either
a match or a switch to turn on the lights. But at last--I shall not
forget that moment; nor Jerome. He was rigid; one arm held
aloft, his eyes bulged out. The whole house was full of
sound--full-toned--vibrant--magnetic. It was the bell.
I jumped for the stairway, but not so quick as Jerome. With three bounds
we were in the library with the lights on. The sound was running down
to silence. We tore down the curtains and rushed into the room. It was
empty!
There was not even the dog. Queen had gone! In a vain rush of grief I
began calling and whistling. It was an overwhelming moment. The poor,
brave shepherd. She had seen it and rushed into its face.
It was the last night I was to have Jerome. We sat up until daylight.
For the thousandth time we went over the house in detail, but there was
nothing. Only the ring. At the suggestion of the detective I touched the
match to the sapphire. It was the same. The colour diminishing, and the
translucent corridors deepening into the distance; then the blur and the
coming of shadows--the men, Watson and the professor--and my dog.
Of the men, only the heads showed; but the dog was full figure; she was
sitting, apparently on a pedestal, her tongue was lolling out of her
mouth and her face of that gentle intelligence which only the Australian
shepherd is heir to. That is all--no more--nothing. If we had hoped to
discover anything through her medium we were disappointed. Instead of
clearing up, the whole thing had grown deeper.
I have said that it was the last night I was to have Jerome. I didn't
know it then. Jerome went out early in the morning. I went to bed. I
was not afraid in the daylight. I was certain now that the danger was
localised. As long as I kept out of that apartment I had nothing to
fear. Nevertheless, the thing was magnetic. A subtle weirdness pervaded
the building. I did not sleep soundly. I was lonely; the isolation was
crowding on me. In the afternoon I stepped out on the streets.
I have spoken of my experience with the conductor. On this day I had the
certainty of my isolation; it was startling. In the face of what I was
and what I had seen it was almost terrifying. It was the first time
I thought of sending for Hobart. I had thought I could hold out. The
complete suddenness of the thing set me to thinking. I thought of
Watson. It was the last phase, the feebleness, the wanness, the inertia!
He had been a far stronger man than I in the beginning.
I must cable Fenton. While I had still an ego in the presence of men, I
must reach out for help. It was a strange thing and inexplicable. I was
not invisible. Don't think that. I simply did not individualise. Men
didn't notice me--till I spoke. As if I was imperceptibly losing the
essence of self. I still had some hold on the world. While it remained I
must get word to Hobart. I did not delay. Straight to the office I went
and paid for the cable.