Adventure Magazine Cover, October 1911 — page 189: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

The Woman With the Wolves ‘““Good heavens!”’ I said. “Where’s the bloodhound?” Only Torrance remained with me—the rest were running down the slope, shouting. Torrance took the binoculars from his eyes and, white as paper, faced me. “Where?” he said, in a sort of whispered scream. ‘‘Three feet deep in No-Man’s Bog; the quickest and most dangerous quag- mire in the forest! Although the blood- hound does not know it, he is following the trail of Major Stark to the very floors of the morass!’’ His eyes burned like jewels. ‘* And if ever No-Man’s Bog bursts and gives up its dead, the bloodhound will arise not far from the body of that card-cheat, roué, swindler and fortune-hunter, Major Stark— food for the bog this four days past!” I stared, dazed and cold, at the string of reporters running, running eagerly down to that smooth, tempting, lawn-like death-trap at the foot of the hill. “The end of the trail, indeed!” I said weakly, over and over again; ‘“‘the end of the trail, indeed’”’—with a vapid and foolish laugh that I was helpless to check. Presently they all turned, plodding up the slope toward us. Waynill’s face was hard with disappointment, for the bogs hold their secrets inviolate from Scotland Yard as from the rest of the world. And the gray little brother of Colonel Shafto had tears in his eyes, for he had reared the big blood- hound from puppyhood; he had taught it almost all it had known; he had come to love the beautiful brute and at the end of it all he had laid it on the trail to its own death. CHAPTER VII THE WOMAN WITH THE WOLVES [ THINK that day’s happenings left no doubt in the minds of those who wit- nessed them that Stark had been engulfed in the quagmire by accident—save only Waynill, Torrance and myself. Torrance put forward a plausible theory that Stark’s horse had shied at the black patch of mold where the turf was cut, leaped over the patch, twisting as he landed —probably owing to a sudden jerk of the bridle—thrown Stark and bolted. Stark may have lain stunned for a time, and then, recovering consciousness, and, perhaps gravely injured, crawled away in the direc- 1135 tion of No-Man’s Court for help. Missing the way in his dazed state, he had blundered into the bog, not realizing where he was until the treacherous mire had gripped him fast. Colonel Shafto was very warm in support of the theory. Had Stark walked into the bog, it was in the highest degree improbable that the scent would have lain for over four days. But if he had crawled, the scent might have been heavy enough to justify the extreme certainty and confidence the bloodhound had exhibited. The reporters, also, accepted the theory. It was certainly plausible and, further, lent ‘itself to effective ‘‘writing-up” for next morning’s paper. Only Waynill, walking restlessly round the room with a puzzled scowl on his face, ignored the theory. He was the last to go. “Well, Mr. Torrance, I’ll accept your theory when I’ve found ‘Mary’ and Lovell —if they do not provide me with a better one,” he said, on parting. Torrance watched him from the window as he strode away toward Stony Cross. gm “HE HATES the forest. It is “vw, strange country to him. He did well at the patch of cut turf for a town- bred man, but he will not get much farther. It would be child’s play to a black tracker, but to any ordinary detective the secrets of the forest are not easily learned from the trails. And daily the signs that the black tracker would look for-are disappearing. Every blade of grass, dead leaf or twisted heather sprig is gradually slipping back into its place. In two days’ time any clue which the ground may offer now at that spot will be gone as though it had never existed. And Waynill must look elsewhere for clues.”’ Torrance came away from the window. ‘“‘Well, the letter I am waiting for has not arrived,’ he continued in a different tone, ‘‘and you must be content to wait for the truth until I get it.” I thought of the flamboyant and impul- sive promise I had made to ask nothing on the previous evening and frankly regretted it. The ominous disappearance of Lovell, the unquieted suspicions of Waynill, reach- ing tentatively in all directions, the sinister- seeming descent of the ‘‘vultures”’ of the press, the evil fate of the bloodhound, and, not least of all, Torrance’s obvious and desperate sheltering of the Princess, stirred my curiosity to an extremity. cComicbook (©