But in departing from the kitchen-door, the gipsy man could not by any possibility have made his way to the rick-field without going through the fold-yard. And he had not done that. It was true that Lena might have run round and got into the gipsy's way. Unfortunately, none of the men were about, except Mack and old Thomas. Tod sent these off in different directions; Mrs. Todhetley drove away in her pony-chaise to the lanes round, saying the child might have strayed there; Molly and the maids started elsewhere; and I and Tod went flying along a by-road that branched off in a straight line, as it were, from the kitchen-door. Nobody could keep up with Tod, he went so fast; and I was not tall and strong as he was. But I saw what Tod in his haste did not see--a dark man with some bundles of skewers and a stout stick, walking on the other side of the hedge. I whistled Tod back again. "What is it, Johnny?" he said, panting. "Have you seen her?" "Not her. But look there. That must be the man Molly spoke of." Tod crashed through the hedge as if it had been so many cobwebs, and accosted the gipsy. I followed more carefully, but got my face scratched. "Were you up at the great house, begging, a short time ago?" demanded Tod, in an awful passion. The man turned round on Tod with a brazen face. I say brazen, because he did it so independently; but it was not an insolent face in itself; rather a sad one, and very sickly. "What's that you ask me, master?" "I ask whether it was you who were at the Manor-house just now, begging?" fiercely repeated Tod. "I was at a big house offering wares for sale, if you mean that, sir. I wasn't begging." "Call it what you please," said Tod, growing white again. "What have you done with the little girl?" For, you see, Tod had caught up the impression that the gipsy _had_ stolen Lena, and he spoke in accordance with it. "I've seen no little girl, master." "You have," and Tod gave his foot a stamp. "What have you done with her?" The man's only answer was to turn round and walk off, muttering to himself. Tod pursued him, calling him a thief and other names; but nothing more satisfactory could he get out of him. "He can't have taken her, Tod. If he had, she'd be with him now. He couldn't eat her, you know." "He may have given her to a confederate." "What to do? What do gipsies steal children for?" Tod stopped in a passion, lifting his hand. "If you torment me with these frivolous questions, Johnny, I'll strike you. How do I know what's done with stolen children? Sold, perhaps. I'd give a hundred pounds out of my pocket at this minute if I knew where those gipsies were encamped." We suddenly lost the fellow. Tod had been keeping him in sight in the distance. Whether he disappeared up a gum-tree, or into a rabbit-hole, Tod couldn't tell; but gone he was.