art of the ground and
went over it as though he were looking for a needle which had been
lost, and no fewer than three of them trod every inch of the bottom
of the Secret Pond. They took shovels and opened up an old fox's
earth; and a sad-looking man in shabby plain clothes arrived and
walked about smoking a pipe a detective! Up from the village, too,
came the big young curate and the squire's two sons, civil and
sympathetic and eager to be helpful; they all thought it natural that
Mother should be anxious, but refused to credit for an instant that
anything could have happened to Joyce.

"That baby!" urged the curate. "Why, my dear lady, Joan is better
known hereabouts than King George himself. No one could take her a
mile without having to answer questions. I don't know what's keeping
her, but you may be sure she's all right."

"Course she is," chorused the others, swinging their sticks
lightheartedly. "'Course she's all right."

"Get her for me, then," said Mother. "I don't want to be silly, and
you're awfully good. But I must have her; I must have her. I, I want
her."

The squire's sons turned as if on an order and went towards the wood.
The curate lingered a moment. He was a huge youth, an athlete and a
gentleman, and his hard clean-shaven face could be kind and serious.

"We're sure to get her," he said in lower tones. "And you must help
us with your faith and courage. Can you?"

Mother's hand tightened on that of Joyce.

"We are doing our best," she said, and smiled she smiled. The curate
nodded and went his way to the wood.

A little later in the afternoon came Colonel Warden, the lord and
master of all the police in the county, a gay trim soldier whom the
children knew and liked. With him, in his big automobile, were more
policemen and a pair of queer liver-colored dogs, all baggy skin and
bleary eyes bloodhounds! Joyce felt that this really must settle it.
Actual living bloodhounds would be more than a match for Joan.
Colonel Warden was sure of it too.

"Saves time," he was telling Mother in his high snappy voice. "Shows
us which way she's gone, you know. Best hounds in the country, these
two; never known 'em fail yet."

The dogs were limp and quiet as he led them through the wood, strange
ungainly mechanisms which a whiff of a scent could set in motion. A
pinafore, which Joan had worn at breakfast, was served to them for an
indication of the work they had to do; they snuffed at it languidly
for s