Early the next morning she called him up from the city. She explained everything. The little daughter of her best friend had fallen downstairs, injuring herself badly,—perhaps fatally. She felt it her duty to remain with the distracted mother,—she hoped he would understand. And she was in such a hurry to reach the city after the child's father had called her on the telephone that she really did not have the time to stop and explain. He would understand that, too, wouldn't he? And she thought perhaps she would stay over another night. She couldn't leave Marjorie,—at least, not until something definite was known.

He was vastly relieved. All his worry for nothing! He wished now that he had remained in his room instead of going out a second time last night to tramp about the dark, lonely village, driven forth by an ugly fit of temper.

"But Mrs. Strong didn't say anything about the accident," he said over the wire. "She simply said you were in town for the night."

"I can't understand that," replied Alix. "She knew why I came up to town, and I telephoned her during the afternoon that I would stay overnight.

"She might have told me," he complained. "It would have relieved my mind enormously. I—I was horribly unhappy. Never closed my eyes. I thought you,—that is, I wondered if I had done anything to offend you. My Lord, you'll never know how happy I am this minute. My heart is singing—And to think it was like a lump of lead all last night. Do try to come out this evening."

She did not answer at once, but he could plainly hear her breathing. Then she said softly:

"If—if the child is better. I can't leave Marjorie until—until—"

"I understand," he cried heartily. "What a selfish beast I am. Don't give me another thought. Your place is there. Because you are an angel!"

Later on he sauntered over to the postoffice. A number of men and women were congregated in front of the drug store, among them Charlie Webster and A. Lincoln Pollock. The latter had his "pad" in hand and was writing industriously.

"What's the excitement?" Courtney inquired, coming up to Charlie.

"Somebody poisoned Henry Brickler's collie last night," replied Charlie. There was a dark scowl on his chubby face.

"You don't mean that corking dog up at the white house on the—"

"Yep. That's the one," replied Charlie harshly. "Anybody that would poison a dog ought to be tarred and feathered."

"Who did it?"

"You don't suppose a man mean enough to give an unsuspectin' dog a dose of poison would be kind enough to pin his card on the gatepost, do you? I should say not!"

"But why on earth should any one want to poison that big beautiful dog?" cried Courtney indignantly. "Had he bitten anybody?"

"Not as anybody knows of. Henry says he never harmed a living soul. That dog—"

"By George!" exclaimed Courtney suddenly. "This reminds me of something. I passed a couple of men last night down at the corner where you turn up to Miss Crown's. They were leaning against the fence on the opposite side of the road, and I had the queerest sort of feeling about them. I felt that they were watching me. I remember turning my head to look back at them. They were still standing there. It was too dark to see what they looked like—"

"Wait a second," broke in Charlie. "Here's Bill Foss, the constable. Tell it to him, Court."

The town constable, vastly excited, came up the street, accompanied by two or three stern-visaged citizens.

"Well, by thunder!" growled the officer, wiping his forehead. "Somebody's been making a wholesale job of it. Dick Hurdle's 'Jackie' and Bert Little's 'Prince' are dead as doornails. That makes three. Now, who the hell,—"

"Just a second,—just a second," cried A. Lincoln Pollock, elbowing his way into the thick of the new group. "Let me get the facts. You first, Dick. Where did you find your dog's remains? Now, take it calm, Dick. Don't cuss like that. I can't print a word of it, you know,—not a word. Remember there are ladies present, Dick. You've got to—"

Mr. Hurdle said he didn't give a cuss if all the women in town were present, he was going to say what he thought of any blankety-blank,—and so on at great length, despite the fact that the ladies crowded even a little closer, evidently reluctant to miss a word of his just and unbridled blasphemy.

The occasion demanded the sonorous efficiency of Mr. Richard Hurdle. In all Windomville there was no one so well qualified to do justice to the situation as he. (Later on, Charlie Webster was heard to remark that "as long as these dogs had to be killed, it's a great relief that Dick's was one of 'em, because he's got the best pair of lungs in town. He can expand his chest nearly seven inches, and when he fills all that extra space up with words nobody ever even heard of before, people clear over in Illinois have to rush out and shoo their children into the house and keep 'em there till it blows over.")

Doctor Smith came rattling up in his Ford, hopped out, and started to enter the drug store. Catching sight of the druggist in the crowd, he stopped to bawl out:

"Who's been buying prussic acid of you, Sam Foster? What do you mean by selling—"

"I ain't sold a grain of prussic acid in ten years," roared Mr. Foster. "Or any other kind of poison. Don't you accuse ME of—"

"Anything new, Doc? Anything new?" cried the editor of the Sun, rushing up to the doctor.

"They got that dog of Alix Crown's. I tried to save him,—but he was as good as dead when I got there. Of all the damnable outrages—"

"Miss Crown's dog?" cried Courtney, aghast, "Good God! Why,—why, it will break her heart! She LOVED that dog! Men! We've got to find the scoundrel. We've got to FIX him. He ought to be strung up. Has any one called Miss Crown up, Doctor? She is in the city. She—"

"Mrs. Strong called her up. The automobile started for town fifteen or twenty minutes ago to bring her home."

"Keep your shirt on, Court," warned Charlie Webster. "You'll bust a blood vessel. Cool off! There's no use talkin' about GETTING him. Whoever it was that planted these dog-buttons around town was slick enough to cover up his tracks. We'll never find out who did it. It's happened before, and the result is always the same. Dead dogs tell no tales."

"But those two fellows I saw down at the corner last night—"

"Would you be able to identify them?"

"No,—hang it all! It was too dark. It was about half-past nine. Why, earlier in the evening I was at Miss Crown's. I saw the dog. He was on the terrace. He growled at me,—he always growled at me. He didn't like me. Mrs. Strong came to the door and called him into the house. I am sure he was all right then. When is he supposed to have got the poison, Doctor?"

"This morning. She let him out of the house about seven o'clock. Paid no attention to him till he came crawling around to the kitchen door some time afterward. He just laid down and kicked a few times,—that's what makes me think it was prussic acid. It knocks 'em quick."

"Come on, Charlie," cried Courtney, clutching the other's arm. "We must go up to the house. There may be some trace,—something that will give us a clue."

He was at the house when the car returned without Alix. She had sent the chauffeur back with instructions to bury the dog. She could not bear looking at him. She wanted it to be all over with before she came home.

"I don't blame her," said Charlie soberly. "Shows how much she thought of Sergeant when she's willing to pay five hundred dollars reward for the capture of the man or men who poisoned him."

"Where did you hear that?" demanded Courtney, surprised.

"Ed Stevens says she told him to authorize Bill Foss to have reward notices struck off over at the Sun office, offering five hundred cash. She always said that dog was the best friend she had on earth."

"But five hundred dollars! Why, good Lord, you can buy a dozen police dogs for that amount of—"

"You couldn't have bought Sergeant for ten times five hundred," interrupted Charlie. "You see, as a matter of fact, he didn't actually belong to Alix."

"You must be crazy. She has had him since he was a puppy three months old."

"Sure, But, all the same, he didn't belong to her. He belonged to David Strong. Davy got him in France in the spring of 1918 and sent him clear over here for his mother to take care of for him."

Courtney was silent for a moment. "It's strange Miss Crown never told me this," he said, biting his lip.

"Well," said Charlie quaintly, "far as that goes, I don't suppose it ever occurred to her to tell Sergeant he belonged to somebody else, but even if she had I don't reckon it would have made a darn' bit of difference to him. He would have gone on loving her, just the same,—and workin' twenty-four hours a day for her, Sundays and holidays included. A dog don't care who he belongs to, Court, but he's mighty darned particular about who belongs to him."

"I can't understand why he never seemed to like me," mused Courtney.

"Well, maybe," began Charlie soberly, "—maybe, after all, he DID sort of know that he was Davy Strong's dog."

II — For three days Windomville talked of nothing but the "dog murders." The Sun came out on Thursday with a long and graphic account of the mysterious affairs of Monday night, including the views and theories of well-known citizens. It also took occasion to "lambast" Constable Foss with great severity. The Constable, being a Republican, (and not a subscriber to the Sun), was described as about the most incompetent official Windomville had ever known, and that it would have been quite possible for the miscreant or miscreants to have poisoned every dog in town, in broad daylight, accompanied by a brass band, without Bill ever "getting onto it."

It goes without saying that everybody in town was stimulated to prodigious activity by the reward offered by Miss Crown. Notices were stuck up in the postoffice and on all the telephone poles. A great many embarrassing incidents resulted, and three fist-fights of considerable violence occurred,—for the gentlemen accused of the crimes took drastic and specific means of establishing complete and satisfactory alibis.

Courtney Thane chafed under the prolonged absence of Alix Crown. Valuable time was being wasted. He had assisted at the burial of Sergeant, and had shed tears with Mrs. Strong while Ed Stevens, the chauffeur, was filling in the grave up back of the orchard; and he had done further homage to the dead by planting a small American flag at the head of the mound and,—as an afterthought,—the flag of Belgium at the foot.

He felt that he had done very well by a dog that would have torn him to pieces if encouraged by the merest whisper of the words "sic 'im!"

Alix returned late on Friday afternoon. He had a box of roses, ordered from the city for him by Miss Flora Grady, awaiting her, and with them a tender little note of sympathy.

She sat for a long time with Mrs. Strong. Her dark eyes softened and filled with tears as David's mother gently stroked her hair and sought by words to convince her that David would understand.

"It wasn't your fault, Alix darling," she protested. "David won't mind,—not in the least. Sergeant didn't really mean anything to him. He was yours more than he was David's. Don't you worry about David's feelings, dear. He—"

"You don't understand, Aunt Nancy,—you don't understand at all," Alix repeated over and over again in her distress.

"You're just worrying yourself sick over it," said the older woman. "Why, you look all tuckered out, child,—I was shocked when you first came in. Now, don't be foolish, dear. I tell you it will be all right with David. I wrote him all about it, and—what's that you are saying?"

"You don't suppose he will think I—think I did it, Aunt Nancy?" Alix whispered bleakly.

"Think you—for the land's sake, Alix, what on earth are you saying? Are you stark, staring crazy? You come right upstairs and get into bed this minute. My land, I—I believe you're going to be sick. You've got the queerest look in your eyes. Come on, now, deary, and—"

"I am sick,—just sick with unhappiness, Aunt Nancy," sobbed the girl. "You don't know,—you don't understand. Oh, he couldn't believe I would do such a thing as THAT! He couldn't think me so cruel, and wicked and—and spiteful."

"Now, listen to me," said Mrs. Strong sternly. "What is the meaning of all this? What has happened between you and David that makes you talk like this? Tell me,—tell me this minute, Alix Crown."

"Hasn't he told you—written you about ANYTHING?" cried the girl.

"I don't know what you are driving at, Alix, but whatever it is I KNOW David hasn't got anything against you that would make you say such things as you've just been saying." She hesitated a moment and then laid her hand on Alix's head. "I've been wondering a whole lot of late, Alix. Have you and David had a—a misunderstanding?"

"We—we don't like each other as—as we used to, Aunt Nancy," said the girl, lifting her head almost defiantly to look David's mother full in the eyes.

"Is it David's fault?" asked Mrs. Strong after a moment.

"I—I wish you wouldn't ask me anything more about it. At least, not now."

"Is it David's fault?" demanded the other once more, insistently.

"I will say this much; it isn't my fault," replied Alix stiffly.

Mrs. Strong smiled,—a tender, loving smile.

"I think I could straighten everything out if David were only here," she said. "I would take you both across my knee and give you a good sound spanking. It used to work beautifully when you were children,—and I think it would work now. I—I wonder if it would help matters any if I were to spank—No, I'm sure it wouldn't. To do any good at all David would have to be here to see me spanking you and to beg me to let you off and give it to him just twice as hard."

"Oh, Aunt Nancy," cried Alix eagerly, "if you only WOULD! How I wish I were a little girl again! And David a little boy!"

Then she fled from the room. Nancy Strong put her hand over her eyes and sighed.

"I wish David were here," she said to herself. "If he were only here today."

During dinner that evening Alix was strangely repressed. It was plain to Mrs. Strong that she was inwardly agitated. After they left the table she became visibly nervous. She was "fidgety," to speak the thought of her perplexed companion. Time and again she started and appeared to be listening intently, and always there was a queer little expression in her eyes as of expectancy. Once or twice Mrs. Strong surprised a flash of anxiety,—aye, even fear,—in them.

"You haven't read your letters yet, Alix," she said at last, seeking for some means to divert the girl's thoughts. "There is quite a pile of them there on the table."

"I don't feel like reading letters tonight," said Alix. "They can wait till tomorrow." She arose, however, and hurriedly ran through the pile. "I wrote to David before dinner, Aunt Nancy," she said suddenly. "A long letter about Sergeant's death. I wanted him to know how miserably I feel about it."

"Bless your heart, he'll know that without your telling him, child. I am glad you wrote to him, however."

Alix came to a letter addressed in an unfamiliar hand,—a bold, masculine scrawl. The postmark was Chicago. She tore it open. It began with "Dear Alix." She quickly turned to the last page. It was signed "Addison Blythe." A "thank you" letter, of course.

Her back was to Mrs. Strong as she stood beside the table, bending slightly forward to get the full light from the library lamp. She read the letter through to the end; then she walked over to the fireplace and threw it into the flames. Her face had lost every vestige of colour:

DEAR ALIX: [it began] You will no doubt throw this letter into the fire the instant you have finished reading it, and you will hate me for having written it. Nevertheless, I am doing so because I think it is my duty. I offer no apology. I only ask you to believe that my intentions are good. It is best to come straight to the point. I have talked it all over with Mary and she approves of this letter. What I am about to say still requires official confirmation. I do not speak with authority, you must understand. I am merely giving you certain bits of information I have obtained from men who were in France in 1915 and 1916. It rests with you to believe or disbelieve. In any case, if you are wise, you will at least take the trouble to investigate. I am at your service. If I can help you in any way, please call upon me. If you desire it, I will provide you with the names of at least three men who were in Ambulance, all of whom have answered my letters of inquiry. One of these men met Courtney Thane in Paris in November, 1915. He was living at the Hotel Chatham with his mother. She had a husband up at the front, fighting with the French. This husband was a count or something of the sort and a good many years her junior. My informant writes me that young Thane, who drank a great deal and talked quite freely of family affairs, told him that his mother had married this young Frenchman a few months before the war broke out and went to Paris to live with him. He went so far as to say that the Frenchman married her for her money and he hoped the Germans would make a widow of her again before it was too late. According to this chap, Thane had also been in Paris since the beginning of the war. He spent money like a drunken sailor and touched nothing but the high spots. The second or third time he met him, Thane said he would like to get into the Ambulance. His mother, however, was bitterly opposed to his joining up. The last time he saw him, he had on an Ambulance uniform and was as drunk as a lord in one of the cafes. My friend had it straight from fellows out at Neuilly that Thane hadn't worn the uniform a week before it was taken away from him and he was kicked out of the service in disgrace.

One of the other chaps has written me, saying that he was at the base hospital when Thane was stripped of his uniform. He was not a witness to this, but he heard other fellows and the nurses talking about it. Not only was his uniform taken away, but he was ordered to get out of Paris at once. They heard afterward that he went to Madrid with his mother. He was never at Pont-a-Mousson. It is obvious that he was not in the Vosges sector, in view of the fact that he lasted less than a week in the Ambulance, and did a vast amount of carousing in a uniform that I revere.

It is up to you, Alix. The records of the American Ambulance are available. You can obtain all the information you desire, and I beg of you to get into communication with Mr. Hereford or Mr. Andrew or some other official at once. I append below the addresses of several persons to whom you may write. They were high in authority. They will give you facts.

I was convinced that Thane was not on the level when I met him that day. His stories did not jibe. I said nothing to you at the time, because I could not be sure of my ground. I think I am reasonably sure now.

I may add that I have written to Col. Andrew and others on my own hook. If you care to see their replies, when I get them, I shall send them to you. All you have to do is to say the word. In any case, I ask you to believe that my devotion and Mary's deep and honest love are the excuse for this letter, which you may show to Mr. Thane if you see fit. I have no right to question his statement that he served in the Royal Air Force. I know nothing to the contrary. I speak only of the Ambulance. I am, dear Alix,

Yours devotedly,

ADDISON BLYTHE.