There was no show of life. He snapped his fingers. He groped beneath the old lounge. Then, in a frenzy of fear, lest it had all been an apparition, he swung the sofa into the middle of the room. The dog followed beneath it, but he caught a glimpse of him. He pushed the sofa back to the wall and began to coax again. "Come out, Sandy. I 'll not hurt you. Come, Sandy." There was a scratching movement and then the tip of a hot, dry nose appeared. "Come. That 's a good dog. Come." He could hear the tail vigorously thumping the floor, but the head appeared only inch by inch. Donaldson held his breath. "Come," he whispered. Slowly, with the sly pretension that it demanded a tremendous physical effort, the dog emerged and stood shivering beneath the big hand which smoothed its back with cooing words of assurance. "Why, I was n't going to hurt you, Sandy," whispered Donaldson, finding comfort in pronouncing the name. "I was n't going to hurt you. We 're old friends. Don't you remember, Sandy? Don't you remember the night I held you? Don't you remember that, Sandy?" The dog looked up at him moistening its own dry mouth. In every detail this was the same dog he had held upon his knee while arguing with Barstow. He made another test. "Mike," he called. In response the pup wagged his tail good naturedly and with more confidence now. Donaldson caught his breath. Locked within that tiny brute brain was the secret of what waited for him on the morrow: love and the glories of a big life, or death and oblivion. The answer was there behind those moist eyes. But if he could reach Barstow-- Here was a new hope. He could ask him if this was Sandy, and so spare himself the terrors of the night to come. He had the right to do that as long as he abided by the decision. There was a telephone here, and he knew that Barstow lived in an up-town apartment house, so that some one was sure to be in. He found the number in the battered, chemical-stained directory, and put in his call. It seemed an hour before he received his reply. "No, sir, Mr. Barstow is away. Any message?" "Where has he gone?" asked Donaldson dully. "He's off on a yachting cruise, sir." It would have been impossible for him to withdraw more completely out of reach. "When do you expect him back?" "I don't know, sir. He said he might be gone a day or two or perhaps a week." "And he left?" "Last Friday--very unexpectedly." Donaldson hung up the receiver, which had grown in his hand as heavy as lead. He turned back to the dog, who had jumped upon the sofa and was now cuddled into a corner. He lifted his head and began to tremble again as Donaldson came nearer. "Still afraid of me?" he asked with a sad smile. "Why, there is n't enough of me left to be afraid of, pup. There 's only about a day of me left and we ought to be friends during that time."