dog. Before Bruce could dodge or could so much as guess what was
coming,--the kick smote him with agonizing force, square on the
shoulder.

To a spirited collie, a kick carries more than the mere pain of
its inflicting. It is a grossly unforgivable affront as well--as
many a tramp and thief have learned, at high cost.

By the time the kick had fairly landed, Bruce had recovered from
his instant of incredulous surprise; and with lightning swiftness
he hurled himself at his assailant.

No bark or growl heralded the murderous throatlunge. It was all
the more terrible for the noiselessness wherewith it was
delivered. The masquerading man saw it coming, just too late to
guard against it. He lurched backward, belatedly throwing both
hands up to defend his throat. It was the involuntary backward
step which saved his jugular. For his heel caught in the hem of
his white skirt. And wholly off balance, he pitched headlong to
the floor.

This jerky shift of position, on the part of the foe, spoiled
Bruce's aim. His fearful jaws snapped together harmlessly in
empty air at a spot where, a fraction of a second earlier, the
other's throat had been. Down crashed the disguised man. And atop
of him the furious dog hurled himself, seeking a second time the
throatgrip he had so narrowly missed.

At this point on the program Sergeant Mahan arrived just in time
to bury both hands in the mass of Bruce's furry ruff and to drag