"Why will he?" challenged the Master, without stirring. "For all his noble rage, I noticed he took thought to grab up his cap and his overcoat from the hall, as he wafted himself away. And he still had his arctics on, from this afternoon. He won't--" "But suppose he should really go over to one of the neighbors," urged the Mistress, "and tell such an awful story as he threatened to? Or suppose--" "Not a chance!" the Master reassured her. "Now that the summer people are away, there isn't an occupied house within half a mile of here. And he's not going to trudge a half-mile through the snow, in this bitter cold, for the joy of telling lies. No, he's down at the stables or else he's sneaked in through the kitchen; the way he did that other time when he made a grandstand exit after I'd ventured to lecture him on his general rottenness. Remember how worried about him you were, that time; till we found him sitting in the kitchen and pestering the maids? He--" "But that time, he was only sulky," said the Mistress. "Not insanely angry, as he is now. I do hope--" "Stop worrying!" adjured the Master. "He's all right." Which proved, for perhaps the trillionth time in history, that a woman's intuitions are better worth following than a man's saner logic. For Cyril was not all right. And, at every passing minute he was less and less all right; until presently he was all wrong. For the best part of an hour, in pursuance of her husband's counsel, the Mistress sat and waited for the prodigal's return. Then, surreptitiously, she made a round of the house; sent a man to ransack the stables, telephoned to the gate lodge, and finally came into the Master's study, big-eyed and pale. "He isn't anywhere around," she reported, frightened. "It's dinner time. He's been gone in hour. Nobody's seen him. He isn't on the Place. Oh, I wonder if--" "H'm!" grumbled her husband. "He's engineering an endurance contest, eh? Well, if he can stand it, we can." But at sight of the deepening trouble in his wife's face, he got up from his desk. Going out into the hall, he summoned Lad. "We might shout our heads off," he said, "and he'd never answer; if he's really trying to scare us. That's part of his lovable nature. There's just one way to track him, in double time. LAD!" The Master had been drawing on his mackinaw and hipboots as he spoke. Now he opened the front door. "Laddie!" he said, very slowly and incisively to the expectantly eager collie. "Cyril! Find CYRIL! FIND him!" To the super-wise collie, there was nothing confusing in the command. Like many another good dog, he knew the humans of the household by their names; as well as did any fellow-human. And he knew from long experience the meaning of the word, "Find!" Countless times that word had been used in games and in earnest. Its significance, now, was perfectly plain to him. The Master wanted him to hunt for the obnoxious child who so loved to annoy and hurt him.