Adventure Magazine Cover, October 1911 — page 188: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

1134 mounted his horse and, riding some yards behind the hound which his brother held in leash, set out across the heather and gorse- patched turf. We followed at a discreet distance. ““They’re going to start at the place where the turf is cut,”’ said Torrance softly in my ear, as we went. We were walking alone together; the pressmen had formed a little crowd of their own. I felt a sudden surge of curiosity. *“Whocut the turf, Torrance?”’ I asked on the impulse. “‘Gregg,” he answered in no more than a whisper. ‘‘Gregg and I!” I think he saw my bewilderment, for he smiled faintly. “No more questions, Herapath, yet,” he said. “You shall know what I know—when I know everything.”’ And we followed the big hound and his attendants in silence. Presently Coloncl Shafto’s arm went up and we all halted. They had arrived at the spot that mystified Waynill. The Colonel dismounted, a picce of clothing in his hand. What followed then was strange and a little sinister. I think most of us then ex- pected the hound to fail. The scent was four days old, at least, and the bloodhound is a very much more disappointing worker than those who have only read of the won- derful brutes in romances would imagine. Certainly no one, the Colonel least of all, expected the hound to do his work with the extraordinary quickness and precision that he actually did. He nuzzled the boots and odd articles of clothing that Colonel Shafto offered him, put down his intelligent head, made a short eager cast round the patch of cut turf, hesitated for a second, and then, running perfectly mute, nose to the ground, padded swiftly away through the heather. Furiously waving us all back, the Colonel gave the hound some fifty yards start and then followed him at a canter. For some distance the bloodhound trav- eled over level ground. Heseemed to be going along a rough cattle-path and I felt a queer little kick of the heart as I remem- bered Waynill’s remark that he had found the cigar-case at the edge of a cattle-track. Then the ground tilted, sloping down, and the bloodhound disappeared over the slope. Colonel Shafto followed, quickening his pace. We had come nearly half a mile, running at the best pace most of us were capable of, Adventure and when we reached the beginning of the slope most of us stayed there, panting. Indeed, there was little to be gained by running farther, for the slope continued for nearly a quarter of a mile, dropping gently down to the floor of a wide, shallow valley, then tilted up again and, continuing up for another furlong, reached the level. It was like a very shallow, dry river-bed magni- fied several times over. Those who waited where we were standing could see practically everything that oc- curred within a distance of nearly half a mile—if anything was going to occur. Not one of us, except Torrance, who stood there staring out across the forest, would have been astonished, I think, had the bloodhound suddenly come upon the dead body of Major Stark lying among the heather. All were tense with expectancy. But Colonel Shafto rode steadily on down the slope without. a check. THEN presently a small dark speck N sped out from the heather at the bot- tom of the slope, nose to the ground, and ran silently straight across the bottom of the valley. It was the bloodhound, wonder- fully following the four-day trail, and ex- cited little murmurs broke from the knot of pressmen. Torrance was staring through a pair of binoculars and suddenly I heard him draw in his breath with a hiss. Almost at the same second the bloodhound stopped dead at the edge of an expanse of smooth level turf and, throwing up its head, uttered a series of short choky cries, very different from the deep bay my romance-readings had taught me to expect. And there was no reason why the hound should stop that I could see. It stood at the beginning of about a half-acre of turf so smooth and clear of heather growth as to look lawn-like at that distance. There was a volley of quick questions and ejaculations from the journalists. Then Colonel Shafto rode out from the heather toward that level half-acre. But he also stopped suddenly, some eight yards behind the bloodhound, He slipped from his horse and, turning, began to beckon excitedly. I saw him turn again to the bloodhound, whose cries now had changed to a frenzied howl—a long agonized yell of terror. Colonel Shafto frantically tore off his riding coat, but even as his white sleeves flickered like a waved flag, the hound vanished. CO MICLOOKS C©