The Story Continued by Marian Halcombe

“Do you see nothing there?” said the Count, catching him nervously by the collar with one hand, and pointing with the other to the place near which he had found the mouse. “I see plenty of dry sand,” answered Sir Percival, “and a spot of dirt in the middle of it.” “Not dirt,” whispered the Count, fastening the other hand suddenly on Sir Percival’s collar, and shaking it in his agitation. “Blood.” Laura was near enough to hear the last word, softly as he whispered it. She turned to me with a look of terror. “Nonsense, my dear,” I said. “There is no need to be alarmed. It is only the blood of a poor little stray dog.” Everybody was astonished, and everybody’s eyes were fixed on me inquiringly. “How do you know that?” asked Sir Percival, speaking first. “I found the dog here, dying, on the day when you all returned from abroad,” I replied. “The poor creature had strayed into the plantation, and had been shot by your keeper.” “Whose dog was it?” inquired Sir Percival. “Not one of mine?” “Did you try to save the poor thing?” asked Laura earnestly. “Surely you tried to save it, Marian?” “Yes,” I said, “the housekeeper and I both did our best⁠—but the dog was mortally wounded, and he died under our