Here he heard a soft scratching, repeated, at the door. When it came
again he rose and opened the door--at once the tall, shaggy dog slipped
through the opening and glided past him. It startled Byrne oddly to see
the animal stealing away, as if Barry himself had been leaving. He
called to the beast, but he was met by a silent baring of white fangs
that stopped him in his tracks. The great dog was gone without a sound,
and Byrne closed the door again without casting a look inside. He was
stupidly, foolishly afraid to look within.
After that the silence had a more vital meaning. No pictures crowded his
brain. He was simply keyed to a high point of expectancy, and therefore,
when the door was opened silently, he sprang up as if in acknowledgment
of an alarm and faced Barry. The latter closed the door behind him and
glided after the big dog. He had almost crossed the big room when Byrne
was able to speak.
"Mr. Barry!" he called.
The man hesitated.
"Mr. Barry," he repeated.
And Dan Barry turned. It was something like the act of the wolf the
moment before; a swift movement--a flash of the eyes in something like
defiance.
"Mr. Barry, are you leaving us?"
"I'm going outside."
"Are you coming back?"
"I dunno."
A great joy swelled in the throat of Doctor Byrne. He felt like shouting
in triumph; yet he remembered once more how the girl had gone up the
stairs, wearily, with fallen head.
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