him with cautious friendliness. He smiled an oddly gentle smile,—the poor girl was thin as a rail—even worse than the mongrel he had shot. Acting on impulse he stretched out his hand and called, "Here Lady! Come here girl! Come on, there's nothing to be afraid of, here Lady!"
He knew her name! The wonder of it staggered her! She shivered, her muscles suddenly weak as she heard the familiar word. He was a stranger, and she had been taught to distrust strangers, but in his voice she heard a hunger akin to her own . . . Whining softly she thrust her scarred muzzle forward, sniffing eagerly as his hand passed over her head to the sensitive spots behind her ears,—and scratched!
Her red tongue licked out. Here was the friend,—the god,—the protector she had sought. No longer did she feel alone. He would care for her, and love her, and she,—why she would return that love a thousand fold, as dogs had done since the beginning of time. She looked with bright happy eyes at the man who claimed her. He smiled at her,—and when he turned away she followed, trotting at his heels, head high, tail curved proudly. It was nice to be respectable again . . .
A vagrant breeze blew dog scent to her nostrils. She growled deep in her throat, staring with jealous eyes into the alleyway from whence the odor came,—her hackles raised in a stiff brush along her back as she halted stiffly, teeth bared in a snarl.
The man eyed her suspiciously, his hand going to the pistol at his belt, but she ignored him, watching the alley mouth. There was a smell of carrion about the hidden dog, and she wondered dully why the man beside her couldn't sense it. A maneater lurked there in the shadow!
Falkland noted the cant of her head and realized that the bare toothed snarl was not for him. He whirled to face the alley, his rifle leaping up to be ready—but he was late. The maneater was already in midair, driving for his throat,—a huge Irish Wolfhound, grey and shaggy—larger even than the Dane that followed him. He had barely time to raise an arm to protect his throat before the dog was on him. But that leaping body never struck its mark.
A brindle thunderbolt brushed past him, striking the Wolfhound broadside. The bigger dog snarled as the
