"I am interested," the scientist answered, "in everything."
"Of course, of course. As for the body, unfortunately I cast it into the sea. Poor Buck! I hated to kill the noble creature; but, when they go mad, there is nothing else that you can do."
"Of course," said Oxford. "But—well, Mr. Griswold, I am anxious to see that spot, anyway."
"Yes, yes; of course."
Still Griswold made no movement to conduct the other to it. The blood, that cursed telltale blood! Why had he mentioned it? But there. He had done the wise thing. Of course he had. They would, in all likelihood, have chanced upon the spot. And the blood was not telltale—unless examined under a microscope. And, now that he had mentioned it—mentioned it in so nonchalant a manner—there would be no suspicion, no examination under a microscope. So why was he hesitating? He must not hesitate a moment longer. That was the worst thing that he could do.
A few minutes, therefore, and they had reached the scene of the tragedy—the murderer himself, Oxford, Captain Spar and two sailors. Though he evinced not the slightest hesitation, the slightest uneasiness, yet a horrible fear had Griswold in its grip. It was as though this dark, mysterious Oxford knew something. Why had he been so anxious to come to this spot? Why, on the arriving there, had he motioned for the others to keep back, and why was he examining the place so keenly? And there! Look at that! He was thrusting a finger of his right hand right into a mass of the coagulated blood—the coagulated blood of Ferdinand Chantrell!
Griswold did not see Oxford's signal, but of a sudden he discovered that the others had come up to him, up to Griswold, that is—that Captain Spar stood at his right side, those two husky sailors at his left.
"Hum!" said Oxford, raising his look from his finger and fixing it upon the eyes of Cuthbert Griswold. "You say that this is the blood of a dog?"
"Yes, yes! Of course it was a dog! The blood of Buck!"
"Imaginary dogs," said the scientist, "don't have any blood at all."
"Why, why do you think, Mr. Oxford, that, that?"
"I don't think," the other interrupted; "I know: this is not the blood of any canine; it is the blood of a human being, the blood of a man!"
"A man?"
Griswold barked out a sardonic laugh.
"I confess," he said, "that I don't see your little joke. There was no man here, only poor Buck."
"There was no dog here," Oxford told him, "save Pluto there. The victim was a man."
"Ha, ha!" said Griswold. "I must say, though, that you have a queer idea of humor, Mr. Oxford. Your humor is a little too grisly for me—even though your victim is only an imaginary one."
"Come, Griswold! You might as well make a clean breast of it. Why did you kill him and in a manner so brutal?"
"As I told you, because he went mad; and there was nothing brutal about it. Poor Buck! He was a noble creature."
Then a strange thing happened: Guy Oxford laughed. And that laugh sent a chill through and through the heart of the murderer.
"You—you fiend!" Griswold cried.
"Why a fiend?" Oxford queried sweetly.
"Well, you look like one, and you laugh like one, too."
"I do? Gently there, Griswold!" Oxford exclaimed softly. "I would suggest that you keep your hand
