“He wanted your secret,” I said. “The Wagensburg treasure, you called it. And you didn’t see the point.”
He smiled again.
“Are you fond of dogs?” he breathed.
“Yes.”
“Will you take care of mine?”
“I will.”
He nodded.
“Good man,” he whispered. Then, “Look in her collar,” he murmured, “and you’ll find she can pay for her keep.”
His eyes closed then, and he lay so still for a while that I thought he was dead.
Suddenly—
“Raise me,” he said. I did so. “What’s England like?” he said. “I haven’t been able to go there for seven years.”
I tried to tell him.
“But the country’s the same,” he said thickly. “The woods, and the meadows at sundown and—”
That was his last word, for a terrible rush of blood came from his mouth, and he died as did Falstaff, speaking of green fields.
His blood was all over my hands and the dog’s coat, but I presently found a stream and cleansed the two of us.
I had rather a business to keep the dog with me, for, though she was timid, she would have stayed with the corpse: but I turned a strap, which I had, into a leash and, speaking her kindly, tried to show that I was her friend. And what with the excitement and horror of the whole business, my efforts to keep out of sight of passing vehicles, my constant outlook for Ellis and my anxiety to avoid association with the murder that had been done, I forgot to examine her collar for several hours. And this was as well, for my mind was full enough. Indeed, to this day, try as I will, I cannot tell how I came to Rouen nor yet to Dieppe. But I know that the car had been shipped and that I was aboard, arguing about quarantine, when I remembered the words of the dead Englishman.
In the same instant it came to me that, for such as had eyes to see, the collar was directly connecting me with the crime. As soon as convenient, therefore, I went up on deck, cut the leash down to a collar and, making the change in fear and trembling, stuffed the stout original into my coat pocket, out of which, do what I would, it bulged terribly.
Indeed more than once I came within an ace of dropping it overboard.
It was in my mind to say that I had found the dog collarless on the highway, and that was the tale I told at Newhaven as carelessly as I could. But, while I told it, I sweated, and the collar in my pocket felt like a packing-case.
It was late when I reached London, for there was no one at Newhaven who was licensed to receive the dog, and, though I might have left her in her hutch to await the coming of the carrier for whom I had sent, I had not the heart to do so. I have never seen a dumb animal, that was not bodily sick, in such evident distress. She would neither eat nor lie down, but sat for the most part with her head drooped, staring upon the ground. If ever I made to leave her, she would look at me so miserably that I spent the whole of the morning seated on a box by her side, and, when at length the carrier took her in charge, I could not meet her gaze, but, muttering some words of comfort, patted her hanging head and hurried away.
I drove straight to ⸻’s Hotel, there to find a letter from Hanbury asking me to dine that night at his father’s house. I accepted immediately. Indeed, the invitation was just what I wanted, for I had already determined to tell Hanbury all that had happened to me the day before and to share with him whatever a scrutiny of the dog-collar might disclose.
And here I may say that I looked at the collar in my bedroom at ⸻’s Hotel, but could see nothing at all unusual within or without. The plate was engraved with a date, 17‒10‒16, which, I supposed, meant something to the dead man, but, except that it was un-English, there was nothing about it which called for any remark. I was sure, however, that when the leather was opened, we should find something within, and I hoped very much that this would prove of more interest than a hundred-pound note.
By the time I had bestowed the car and had bathed, it was six o’clock; so I put on evening clothes and, slipping the collar, which I had tied up with string so that it lay pretty flat, into my pocket, walked to the Club of which I had quite recently been elected a member.
It was unlikely that news of the murder would yet have reached England: for all that, I scanned every evening paper carefully; but there was nothing in any of them about the crime.
I was to dine at eight, but so soon as I had done with the papers, such was my impatience to see Hanbury that I felt I could wait no longer, and, very soon after seven, I went to the members’ lobby where I had left my coat.
My coat was gone.
For a moment I stared blankly at the peg on which it had hung: then I began to go feverishly about the cloakroom, plucking at coat after coat which at all resembled mine and hoping desperately to come upon it.
I could only think that some member had made a mistake, for the Club was above suspicion and I could not believe that a stranger would have been so bold or so successful. Yet I was worried to death, because whoever had taken the coat was bound to find the collar and certain to remark the inscription upon the plate. Indeed, I saw myself going down to a very sea of troubles, for, you will remember, I had sworn I found the dog collarless, and thereby put myself on
