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"Mr. Dorr," he drawled, "who--er--owned your--er--dog?"
"Why, I--I did," said the startled chemist.
"Who gave him to you?"
"A friend."
"Quite so. Was it that--er--friend who--er--offered the reward?"
"What makes you think that?"
"This, to be frank. A man who doesn't know a bulldog from a
bed-spring isn't likely to be offering a thousand dollars to avenge
the death of one. And the minute you answered my question as to
whether you cared for dogs, I knew you didn't. When you fell for a
green ribbon, and a splay-legged, curly-tailed medal-winner in the
brindle bull class (there's no such class, by the way), I knew you
were bluffing. Mr. Dorr, who--er--has been--er--threatening your
life?"
The chemist swung around in his chair.
"What do you know?" he demanded.
"Nothing. I'm guessing. It's a fair guess that a reasonably
valuable brindle bull isn't presented to a man who cares nothing for
dogs without some reason. The most likely reason is protection. Is
it in your case?"
"Yes, it is," replied the other, after some hesitation.


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