the matter?"

I didn't answer her. I hardly heard. I forgot everyone except Brian and
that girl. It was only when the thing was over, and we were all talking
at once, that I realized how the others had shared my fright.

Perhaps Brian recognized the dog's bark at a distance, for he says a
dog's voice is individual as a man's. Or his instinct--made magically
keen by his blindness--told him in a flash of inspiration what his eyes
couldn't see. Anyhow, he knew that Dierdre was in danger, and almost
flung her behind him. He was just in time to save her from being thrown
down by the dog, who hurled himself like a young avalanche at Brian. To
those who had no clue to the truth, it must have seemed that the animal
was mad. Julian, and Father Beckett, and the khaki man rushed to the
rescue, only to see the dog and Brian in each other's arms, the creature
licking Brian's face, laughing and crying at the same time--which you
know, Padre, a dog frantic with joy at sight of a long-lost master can
do perfectly well! It seems too melodramatic to be true, but it _is_
true: the dog was Sirius.

You'll think now that this is the "astonishing thing" which would--I
said--have made this whole trip worth while. But no: the thing I meant
has little or nothing to do with the finding of Sirius.

Even Mother Beckett could sit still no longer. She had to be helped out
of the car by me to join the group round Brian and the dog. She took my
arm, and I matched my steps to her tiny trot, though I pined to sprint!
We met Father Beckett coming back with apologies for his one minute of
forgetfulness. The first time in years, I should think, that he had
forgotten his wife for sixty whole seconds!

"It's like something in a story or a play," he panted, out of breath.
"This is Brian's lost dog. You've heard him talk of Sirius, my dear.
There can be no doubt it's the same animal! The man who thought he was
its master admits that. And _guess_ who he is--the man, not the dog."

Mother Beckett reminded her husband that never had she succeeded in a
guess. But she was saved trying by the arrival of the man in khaki who,
having abandoned his dog--or being abandoned by it--had followed Mr.
Beckett.

"Why, Jack _Curtis_!" gasped the little old lady. "It can't be you!"

"I guess it's nobody else," laughed a soldierly fellow, with the
blackest eyes and whitest teeth imaginable. "I'm doing the war for the
New York _Record_--staying here at the chateau of Roy