ild are the words that leap from the lips of Richard Darke, as
he stands gazing after.

"Great God!" he cries; "I've done an infernal foolish thing. The cur
will go home to Clancy's house. That'll tell a tale, sure to set people
searching. Ay, and it may run back here, guiding them to the spot.
Holy hell!"

While speaking, the murderer turns pale. It is the first time for him
to experience real fear. In such an out-of-the-way place he has felt
confident of concealing the body, and along with it the bloody deed.
Then, he had not taken the dog into account, and the odds were in his
favour. Now, with the latter adrift, they are heavily against him.

It needs no calculation of chances to make this clear. Nor is it any
doubt which causes him to stand hesitating. His irresolution springs
from uncertainty as to what course he shall pursue.

One thing certain--he must not remain there. The hound has gone off
howling. It is two miles to the widow Clancy's house; but there is an
odd squatter's cabin and clearing between. A dog going in that guise,
blood-bedraggled, in full cry of distress, will be sure of being seen--
equally sure to raise an alarm.

On the probable, or possible, contingencies Dick Darke does not stand
long reflecting. Despite its solitude, the cypress forest is not the
place for tranquil thought--at least, not now for him. Far off through
the trees he can hear the wail of the wounded Molossian.

Is it fancy, or does he also hear human voices?

He stays not to be sure. Beside that gory corpse, shrouded though it
be, he dares not remain a moment longer.

Hastily shouldering his gun, he strikes off through the trees; at first
in quick step; then in double; this increasing to a rapid run.

He retreats in a direction contrary to that taken by the dog. It is
also different from the way leading to his father's house. It forces
him still further into the swamp--across sloughs, and through soft mud,
where he makes footmarks. Though he has carefully concealed Clancy's
corpse, and obliterated all other traces of the strife, in his "scare,"
he does not think of those he is now making.

The murderer is only--cunning before the crime. After it, if he have
conscience, or be deficient in coolness, he loses self-possession, and
is pretty sure to leave behind something which will furnish a clue for
the detective.

So is it with Richard Darke. As he retreats from the scene of his
diabolical deed, hi