“What’s the matter, Rip?” asked Sidney Zoom, over his shoulder.
The dog gave a single thump of his tail, then lowered his muzzle to his paws, cocked his ears forward.
“He thinks you’re going out.”
“I am.”
“Soon?”
“Yes.”
“You want me to remain here?”
“No. Go to your apartment. I’ll telephone if I have anything for you to do.”
“Did you intend to call upon Mr. Pratt?”
“No. It would do no good. He prides himself on being able to find a legal excuse for everything he wants to do. He’s smart. A word of warning would be wasted.”
“You intend to make him pay over some of his ill-got gains?”
Sidney Zoom whirled and faced her.
Tall, well muscled, though slender, there was about him something of the untamed tension of the crouching police dog.
“Yes!” he snapped, and the word was full of menace.
“Some day you’ll get into serious trouble with your ideas of justice,” she said.
He shrugged his shoulders.
“At any rate, my method is better than the courts. They have so many laws they stumble blindly through a maze of procedure, lose sight of the primary purpose of all courts — to do justice. However, there’s no use going into that now. I’m going out. Come, Rip.”
And Sidney Zoom, whirling an arm, slammed the door of the cabinet, picked up a hat and coat, flung open the door. The dog at his heels, he ascended the companionway, pounded across the deck and leaped to the float.
Behind him the girl, her eyes suddenly tender, looked at the little cabinet, then at the door.
“He’s like that,” she murmured to herself. “Whenever I get at all personal he runs away. Heavens, I’m not going to bite the man.”
Then she laughed, but there was a throaty catch in the laugh.
II
Sidney Zoom had dinner at an exclusive club, placed his dog on leash, and strolled through the lighted shopping district. But his keen eyes did not so much as glance at the window displays. He looked at faces, darting his hawk’s gaze into the features of passing pedestrians.
How much he saw, only Sidney Zoom knew, but it was said of him that a single, swift glance could tell him all about the character of any person, man or woman.
For more than an hour he walked, the dog tugging at the leash, attracting attention. Then they swung from the shopping district, picked up Zoom’s expensive sedan and cruised about the city. By ten o’clock Sidney Zoom parked his car near the entrance to one of the city parks, and resumed his walk.
This time his feet crunched over smooth gravel, and there were few pedestrians. For the most part, the occupants of the park were clustered in shadow; couples, sitting on benches. Occasionally the soft murmur of a subdued voice was heard, but this was exceptional. The park was shrouded in silence.
The dog flung his nose to the wind, caught the odor of every one he passed. It has been said that a dog can smell emotion. Certain it is that he can smell fear, and he can smell rage. There is more reason to suppose that a dog can smell the other emotions than to presume that he cannot. But a dog’s keen nose can smell one thing remarkably well, and that is the odor of burned powder in the barrel of a revolver.
Hence, when the dog suddenly stopped, flung himself around find strained at the leash, Sidney Zoom turned his eyes to the figure at which the dog’s nose pointed.
A single dejected figure sprawled on the bench, head supported on a crooked arm, one leg crossed over the other.
The dog barked once, a short, imperative bark.
Sidney Zoom moved forward.
“Pardon me, my friend, but you have a loaded revolver in that coat pocket.”
The man gave a single convulsive leap and was on his feet, his eyes wide with panic.
“A holdup man, perhaps?” The voice of Sidney Zoom was kindly.
The man shook his head, would have run, but a throaty growl from the dog stopped him.
“I wouldn’t try to escape. You see, my dog’s been trained for police work. And he can detect the odor of a fouled barrel on a gun. I would say the gun had been discharged and not well cleaned. Of course, you know it’s a crime to carry one of those weapons.”
The man tried to say something, failed.
Sidney Zoom placed a firm hand on the elbow.
“Come with me.”
“Am... am... I arrested? Good God, not that! I meant no harm to any one except myself—”
Sidney Zoom shook his head. “Come,” he repeated.
When he had placed his unwilling guest in the sedan and started the motor the man broke into swift speech.
“Say, what are you doing? Are you an officer or not? You’ve got no right to—”
Sidney Zoom turned cold eyes upon him.
“You want me to call an officer?”
“No, no!”
“Why did you have the gun?”
“I can’t tell. It’s none of your damned business.”
Sidney Zoom nodded, the nod of one who merely confirms an earlier opinion.
“People don’t often confide in me,” he said, and swung the car in to the curb.
“You’ll stay here with the gentleman, Rip,” he said to the dog, and slipped the leash.
The dog half bared his fangs and growled.
Sidney Zoom telephoned his secretary.
“Come to the yacht at once,” he said, hung up the telephone, returned to the car.
The drive was completed in sullen silence.
“I might use that gun on you, you know!” rasped the captive, as Sidney Zoom escorted him across the float to the deck of the yacht.
It was the dog that made answer. Something in the man’s tone carried to the canine’s brain an understanding of the threat. He growled and bared his fangs again.
“Come,” said Sidney Zoom, and led the way to the cabin.
Vera Thurmond had preceded them. Her eyes were dark with emotion, her lips half parted.
“Another?” she asked.
“Another,” intoned Sidney Zoom. Then he turned to the man.
“You’ll talk with her. People never talk with me.”
And he strode to a connecting door, walked into an adjoining room, and slammed the door shut.
The man turned to the girl.
“If I’m not out of here in ten seconds,” he snapped, “somebody’s going to get hurt. I can shoot that damned dog before he can get to me.”
But his only answer was a smile from the girl, a smile of tender understanding.
She crossed to him.
“Sit down,” she said. “A few weeks ago I was like you. I, too, thought life too stern to tackle. I tried to end it. He saved me.”
And she inclined her head toward the closed door.
“I don’t want to be saved. I know what I’m doing.”
She motioned toward a chair.
“It’s his hobby — righting wrongs. He calls himself a Doctor of Despait, a Collector of Lost Souls; and he makes things come right.”
“Bah! I don’t want charity.”
“It isn’t charity. He’s a fighter, and he teaches others to stand up and fight. Suppose you tell me?”
The man dropped in the chair. The girl drew up a stool, looked at him and smiled.
“You’re married?” she asked.
The man’s jaw clamped.
“Yes.”
“I wonder if your wife — knows—”
That remark crashed down the barriers of sullen antagonism. He averted his head that she might not see the swift rush of tears that filmed his eyes.
“Clara,” he said, and the name was breathed with the reverence of one who prays, “and Effie! They’ll know afterward, but it’s the only way. You see there’s a life insurance policy for two thousand dollars, and it’s good, even in the event of suicide.”