along her back bristled. Again the low growl. I caught Jerome's
eyes. It was queer.

"What is it, Queen?" I spoke.

At the sound of my voice she wagged her tail and looked round,
then stepped between the curtains. Just her head. She drew back;
her lips drawn from her teeth, snarling. She was rigid, alert,
vitalised. Somehow it made me cold. She was a brave dog; she
feared nothing. The detective stepped forward and pulled the
curtains apart. The room was empty. We looked into each other's
faces. What is there to instinct? What is its range? We could see
nothing.

But not to the dog. Her eyes glowed. Hate, fear, terror, her whole
body rigid.

"I wonder," I said. I stepped into the room. But I hadn't counted
on the dog. With a yelp she was upon me, had me by the calf of the
leg and was drawing me back. She stepped in front of me; a low,
guttural growl of warning. But there was nothing in that room; of
that we were certain.

"Beats me," said the detective. "How does she know? Wonder if she
would stop me?" He stepped forward. It was merely a repetition.
She caught him by the trouser-leg and drew him back. She crowded
us away from the curtain. It was almost magnetic. We could see
nothing, neither could we feel; was it possible that the dog could
see beyond us? The detective spoke first: