say positively that you will hear no more from Harvey. I know him well enough for that.”
Quite viciously, Galbraith Chittenden dragged Beowulf toward the grove, which was only a few feet from where the men were standing. The dog protested with angry snarls.
“I’m going through this woods,” said Galbraith, in a determined tone. “I’m going to assure myself that Wilbur is not there. Come, Zachary, help me.”
“We can’t manage it,” protested the son. “Beowulf won’t go with us. How will we get him back? Of course, I can take him around, if you will go through alone.”
“I’m not going through alone,” growled Galbraith obstinately. “Come, Zachary - you wanted me to visit here. You were worried about Wilbur. We’re going through with the dog.”
Reluctantly, Zachary assisted with the leash. Beowulf broke away and dashed madly about the lawn.
Up on the veranda of the clubhouse, Lamont Cranston, who had arisen, now resumed his seat.
Craig Ware captured the wild dog’s leash. Beowulf snuggled his nose in the showman’s hands. Ware stroked the animal soothingly.
“Poor fellow,” spoke Ware. “He wants his master. I know animals, Mr. Chittenden - right from hedgehogs up to elephants. This is a fine dog. Come - Beowulf.”
Holding the leash, Ware brought the dog to Galbraith Chittenden at the edge of the trees. Beowulf was no longer snarling nor afraid. He seemed ready to do whatever Ware might command. The showman stroked the dog’s head.
“Try him now,” he suggested.
GALBRAITH seized the leash and started into the grove, beckoning Zachary to follow. Beowulf moved onward; then stopped, trembling, to turn back toward Ware.
“Go on, old fellow,” said the showman softly, moving his hands forward. “Go on, Beowulf. It’s all right. What’s to hurt you?”
The gentle, kindly manner of the middle-aged man reassured the police dog amazingly. Turning into the trees, Beowulf walked in a subdued manner beside Galbraith Chittenden. The old man smiled and called a word of thanks to Ware. As Galbraith started through the grove, Zachary silently followed his father.
Up on the clubhouse veranda, Lamont Cranston witnessed this unexpected change of affairs. He could see Ware encouraging the dog; he observed the showman finally walk away from the fringe of the beeches.
Until that moment, Cranston had fully expected to see the big police dog come bounding from the woods. Now that it was too late, a tense expression came over Cranston’s visage - one of those rare traces of emotion that the man so seldom exhibited.
Laying his glasses aside, Lamont Cranston arose and walked across the golf links, taking a rapid course toward the grove of beeches.
He stopped before he had gone a hundred yards. It was too late now. The sudden change in the dog’s demeanor had frustrated Cranston’s plans. Already, Galbraith and Zachary Chittenden must be in the depths of the grove far beyond recall.
Chance had sent them there. What would be the outcome? Death lurked amidst those beautiful copper- boughed trees.
Moving back to the clubhouse, Lamont Cranston could do nothing more than wait to see the outcome of this new venture into the grove of doom!
CHAPTER XI
IN THE GROVE
GALBRAITH CHITTENDEN had entered the gloom beneath the beeches with surprising energy for a man of his age. With rapid strides, he took a straight course toward the heart of the woods - directly along the way that he knew Wilbur must have come from the opposite direction.
The police dog, no longer protesting, began to strain forward, whining at times, growling at intervals. It had seemingly caught the spirit of the search. Galbraith, intent of purpose, did not sense the hideous atmosphere of these brown-matted, irregular corridors. Beowulf, eager for his master, looked up as though asking to be loosed. The old man responded by leaning down and unclasping the hook that held the dog’s collar. Beowulf bounded forward; then stood waiting.
Galbraith Chittenden looked around for Zachary. The old man saw his son lagging far behind. Zachary’s evil face looked grotesque in this strange light. It wore a sickening, pallid expression.
“Come on!” ordered Galbraith.
“Go ahead,” said Zachary. “I’ll follow. I’m looking around a bit. You’re moving too fast, father.”
Galbraith Chittenden snorted contemptuously. He marched straight forward. The police dog, scenting the ground curiously, circled about the old man, covering a much wider area. Zachary Chittenden, a worried look upon his face, crept onward, slowly veering toward the right.
One could see a considerable distance beneath the trees, due to the uniform height of the trunks to the lower branches. Off to the left and farther ahead, Zachary could spy his father; and every now and then, the grayish form of Beowulf bounded in the air into distant view.
They were deep in the grove now, Zachary still keeping the right, increasing his pace so that he would not lose ground. Fully did the malicious-faced young man realize the impending danger that hovered above this low- roofed acreage. By swift, circuitous travel, Zachary gained more ground until he was more than fifty yards ahead of Galbraith and the dog; and still a considerable space to the right.
Suddenly, Zachary stopped his progress and gripped the trunk of a tree. He was experiencing the same sensations that Calvin Merrick had gained herein, save that Zachary’s mind was ravening as well as intuitive. Zachary recognized the presence of a hidden threat; he knew, however, that the danger lay over his father, who was now pacing slowly at the very center of the grove.
Wilbur’s dog was traveling in a wide, continuous circle, its muzzle against the ground. Whines became snarls; then came excited barks. Steadying himself, Zachary was tense. He knew that something was about to happen, not here, but over there, fifty yards away.
THE dog sprang suddenly forward. Galbraith Chittenden followed it. Beowulf stopped and growled; then bounced forward, barking in wild excitement. Again the dog stopped; its bark became a currish howl - as its pointed nose stared up toward a tree branch.
A streak of gray whisked rapidly along the ground as the howling beast began to run from something that it had seen.
Zachary saw the bounding dog tearing off through the trees. He saw a wild, frantic leap that seemed to carry Beowulf five feet in air. The howl became terrific; a frightened yelp followed; then all was silent. Try as he could, Zachary could not trace the dog. It had vanished - upward - and had not returned.
Galbraith Chittenden was shouting, calling the dog by name. Zachary could see his father striding forward among the trees, then turning in an effort to learn what had become of Beowulf. It was then that Zachary sensed a greater danger than before.
Galbraith’s cries were frantic. His form disappeared beyond two trees that formed a blocking path to Zachary’s vision, due to the angle from which the young man was watching. Zachary mopped cold perspiration from his forehead.
“Zachary - Zachary!” The call came wildly through the grove. Its sound seemed suppressed within the blanket of gloom that lay everywhere.
“Zachary!” It was Galbraith Chittenden’s shout - a cry of hopeless, helpless terror.
Then came a gurgling, muffled call that formed a gigantic gasp within these cloisters where fierce evil dwelt. Zachary knew the meaning of that cry. It was his father’s last, pitiful summons for aid, in the face of complete annihilation.
Zachary Chittenden did not respond. Instead, he turned and fled post-haste, off through the grove to the right. His flight was unrestrained. With a long yardage of safety from the spot where doom had fallen, Zachary was heading for the fringe of the grove beside the beach.
It was a mad dash for safety that ended only when the blueness of the Sound trickled through among the tree trunks. With a last spurt, Zachary plunged over the final stretch of matted brown and hurled himself headlong
