Why are they not permitted to
stay? Bitterly Julian asked that question. Of all the men whom he knew,
only Valentine did anything for him. Must Valentine, of all men, be the
one who might not stay with him? The rest he could spare. He could not
spare Valentine. He could not. The impotence of his patience tortured him
physically, like a disease. He sprang up from his chair. He must do
something at once to know the truth. What could he do? He had no
knowledge of medicine. He could not tabulate physical indications, and
he would not trust to his infernal instinct. For it was that which cried
to him again and again, "Valentine is dead." What--what could he do?
A thought darted into his mind. Dogs are miraculously instinctive. Rip
might know what he did not certainly know, might divine the truth. He ran
into Valentine's bedroom.
"Rip," he cried; "Rip!"
The little dog sprang from its lonely sleep and accompanied Julian
energetically to the tentroom. Observing Valentine's attitude, it sprang
upon the couch beside him, licked his white face eagerly, then, gaining
no response, showed hesitation, alarm. It began to investigate the body
eagerly with its sharp nose, snuffing at head, shoulders, legs, feet.
Still it seemed in doubt, and paused at length with one fore foot planted
on Valentine's breast, the other raised in air.
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