Chapter XVII: The Shepherd

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.