Miss Jones was pleased. “Such a nice servant,” she said. “One of the old kind. She had been with the family fifty years, she told me, and had nursed Mr. Andrews on her knee. Fancy! Such a large fat man as he is now. Too much beer, I suppose. I suppose they get so thirsty with all the straw and hay about. Yes, a really nice woman. She told me that there was no place in Glebeshire to touch them for cream. I dare say they're right. After all, you never can tell. I remember at home...” She broke off then and cried: “Where's Hamlet?” Mary, wickeder than ever, stared through her spectacles down the road. “I don't know, Miss Jones,” she said. They had left the wood and the farm, and there was nothing to be seen but the long white ribbon of road hemmed in by the high hedges. “Perhaps he stayed behind at the farm,” said Miss Jones. Then Mary told her worst lie. “Oh, no, Miss Jones. He ran past us just now. Didn't you see him?” “No, I didn't. He's gone on ahead, I suppose. He runs home sometimes. Naughty dog! We shall catch him up.” But of course they did not. They passed through the gates of Cow Farm and still nothing of Hamlet was to be seen. “Oh dear! Oh dear!” said Miss Jones. “I do hope that he's arrived. Whatever will Jeremy say if anything has gone wrong?” Mary was breathing hard now, as though she had been running a desperate race. She would at this moment have given all that she possessed, or all that she was ever likely to possess, to recall her deed. If she could have seen Hamlet rushing down the road towards her she would have cried with relief; there seemed now to be suddenly removed from her that outside agency that had forced her to do this thing; now, having compelled her, it had withdrawn and left her to carry the consequences. Strangely confused in her sentimental soul was her terror of Jeremy's wrath and her own picture of the wretched Hamlet barking his heart out, frightened, thirsty, and lonely. Her teeth began to chatter; she clenched her hands together. Miss Jones went across the courtyard, calling: “Hamlet! Hamlet!” The family was collected, having just sat down to tea, so that the announcement received its full measure of excitement. “Has Hamlet come back? We thought he was ahead of us.” A chair had tumbled over. Jeremy had run round the table to Miss Jones. “What's that? Hamlet? Where is he?” “We thought he must be ahead of us. He ran past us down the road, and we thought--” They thought! Silly women! Jeremy, as though he were challenging a god, stood up against Miss Jones, hurling questions at her. Where had they been? What road had they taken? Had they gone into the wood? Whereabouts had he run past them? “I don't know,” said Miss Jones to this last. “I didn't see him. Mary did.” Jeremy turned upon Mary. “Where was it you saw him?”