"I'll fix that," he
replied, anxious to return to his photographic labours. "Meet me,
both of you, on the road from the station at Woodbine, just as it
is getting dusk." Without another word he disappeared into the
dark room.
We met him that night as he had requested. He had come up to
Woodbine in the baggage-car of the train with a powerful dog, for
all the world like a huge, grey wolf.
"Down, Schaef," he ordered, as the dog began to show an uncanny
interest in me. "Let me introduce my new dog-detective," he
chuckled. "She has a wonderful record as a police-dog."
We were making our way now through the thickening shadows of the
town to the outskirts. "She's a German sheep-dog, a Schaferhund,"
he explained. "For my part, it is the English bloodhound in the
open country and the sheep-dog in the city and the suburbs."
Schaef seemed to have many of the characteristics of the wild,
prehistoric animal, among them the full, upright ears of the wild
dog which are such a great help to it. She was a fine, alert,
upstanding dog, hardy, fierce, and literally untiring, of a tawny
light brown like a lioness, about the same size and somewhat of
the type of the smooth-coated collie, broad of chest and with a
full brush of tail.
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