“There is our witness, sirs. There is the dog who will not cross the street even when his master calls him, but crouches on the edge of the curb and waits with eager eyes but immovable body, till that master comes back. Isn’t that so, Mr. Moore? Have I not heard you utter more than one complaint in this regard?” “I can not deny it,” was the stiff reply, “but what—” I did not wait for him to finish. “Mr. Correan,” I asked, “is this the animal you gassed between the hours of seven and eight on the evening of May the eleventh, crouching in front of this house with his nose to the curbstone?” “It is; I noted him particularly; he seemed to be watching the opposite house.” Instantly I turned upon Mr. Moore. “Is Rudge the dog to do that,” I asked, “if his master were not there? Twice have I myself seen him in the self-same place and with the self-same air of expectant attention, and both times you had crossed to the house which you acknowledge he will approach no nearer than the curb on this side of the street.” “You have me,” was the short reply with which Mr. Moore gave up the struggle. “Rudge, go back to your place. When you are wanted in the court-room I will let you know.” The smile with which he said this was sarcastic enough, but it was sarcasm directed mainly against himself. We were not surprised when, after some sharp persuasion on the part of the major, he launched into the following recital of his secret relation to what he called the last tragedy ever likely to occur in the Moore family. “I never thought it wrong to be curious about the old place; I never thought it wrong to be curious about its mysteries. I only considered it wrong, or at all events ill judged, to annoy Veronica, in regard to them, or to trouble her in any way about the means by which I might effect an entrance into its walls. So I took the one that offered and said nothing.