He was crouching on
his heels in front of the grate and seemingly stirring or poking
something beneath the bars. Some, I can hardly define what,
instinct, guided my eyes to the side table where I had left my
manuscript. It was gone. At that instant: the wind from the wide
open window and door blew the lamp flame and stirred the curtains,
and a great sheet of whole black tinder drifted across the carpet up
to my feet.
Then I knew--he was burning, or had burnt, my work. A flame was
dying down in the grate, filled and overflowing with ragged black
fragments. With a curse I sprang towards the fender, but Nous was
quicker than I. Either divining my intention, or made suspicious by
the queer, sinister look Howard's figure had, the dog flew upon him
with a growl, rolled him over and seized the clothing at his neck.
In another instant I would have called him off, but Howard was an
inveterate coward. I saw his face turn livid with terror as the dog
pinned his throat to the floor. His hand stretched out convulsively
and grasped a long table knife that lay, together with the string
that had held my manuscript, beside him on the floor. He seized it,
and in an instant, before my eyes, he had plunged it deep into the
breast of the dog standing over him. It was all done in a second--a
flash. There was a gush of blood upon the floor, a broken moan from
Nous, and then he staggered and fell over on his side--motionless.
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