But Tip stood at the door, and began to whine, fixing his eyes on his master's face. As nothing came of this, he went back and stood in front of him, wagging his tail heavily and slowly; troubled wrinkles stood out over his beseeching eyes. "What under heaven's the matter with you, dog? You're a regular funeral procession." Jack shoved the creature from him, and again he took up his station at the door. Jack rose, and opened it, and playfully tried to push him out. Tip stood his ground, always with his eyes on his master's face, and whimpered under his breath with almost tearful meaning. "He's on duty to-night," said Jack. "He's got something on his mind, and he wants me to help him out with it. I say, old chap, we don't keep a life-saving station up here. Get out with your nonsense." "There was some one with him when he was here this afternoon," Esmée forced herself to say. "Has Tip been here before?" "Yes, Jack. But a man was with him--a young, strange man. It was about four o'clock, perhaps five; it was getting dusk. I had been asleep, and I was so frightened. He knocked and knocked. I thought he would never stop knocking. He came to my window, and tried to get in, but the sash was frozen fast." Esmée paused, and caught her breath. "And I heard a dog scratching and whining." "Did you not see the man?" "I did. I saw him," gasped Esmée. "It was all quiet after a while. I thought he had gone. I came out into the room, and there he stood close by that window, staring in; and the dog was with him. It was Tip." "And you did not open the door to Tip?" "Jack dear, have you not told me that I was never to open the door when you were away?" "But didn't you speak to the man? Didn't you ask him who he was or what he wanted?" "How could I? He did not speak to me. He stared at me as if I were a ghost, and then he went away." "I would have questioned any man that came here with Tip. Tip doesn't take up with toughs and hobos. What was he like?" Esmée had retreated under this cross-questioning, and stood at some distance from Jack, pale, and trembling with an ague of the nerves. "What was he like?" Jack repeated. "He was most awfully beautiful. He had a face like--like a death-angel." Jack rejected this phrase with an impatient gesture. "Was he fair, with blue eyes, and a little blond mustache?" "I don't know. The light was not good. He stood close to the window, or I could not have seen him. What have I done? Was it wrong not to open the door?" "Never mind about that, Esmée. I want you to describe the man." "I can't describe him. I don't need to. I know--I know it was your brother." "It must have been; and we have been sitting here--how many hours?" "I did not know there could be anybody--who--had a right to come in." "Such a night as this? Get away, Tip!"