Up this lane, down that one; over this moor, across that common; so raced Tod and I. And the afternoon wore away, and we had changed our direction a dozen times: which possibly was not wise. The sun was getting low as we passed Ragley gates, for we had finally got into the Alcester road. Tod was going to do what we ought to have done at first: report the loss at Alcester. Some one came riding along on a stumpy pony. It proved to be Gruff Blossom, groom to the Jacobsons. They called him "Gruff" because of his temper. He did touch his hat to us, which was as much as you could say, and spurred the stumpy animal on. But Tod made a sign to him, and he was obliged to stop and listen. "The gipsies stole off little Miss Lena!" cried old Blossom, coming out of his gruffness. "That's a rum go! Ten to one if you find her for a year to come." "But, Blossom, what do they do with the children they steal?" I asked, in a sort of agony. "They cuts their hair off and dyes their skins brown, and then takes 'em out to fairs a ballad-singing," answered Blossom. "But why need they do it, when they have children of their own?" "Ah, well, that's a question I couldn't answer," said old Blossom. "Maybe their'n arn't pretty children--Miss Lena, she is pretty." "Have you heard of any gipsies being encamped about here?" Tod demanded of him. "Not lately, Mr. Joseph. Five or six months ago, there was a lot 'camped on the Markis's ground. They warn't there long." "Can't you ride about, Blossom, and see after the child?" asked Tod, putting something into his hand. Old Blossom pocketed it, and went off with a nod. He was riding about, as we knew afterwards, for hours. Tod made straight for the police-station at Alcester, and told his tale. Not a soul was there but Jenkins, one of the men. "I haven't seen no suspicious characters about," said Jenkins, who seemed to be eating something. He was a big man, with short black hair combed on his forehead, and he had a habit of turning his face upwards, as if looking after his nose--a square ornament, that stood up straight. "She is between four and five years old; a very pretty child, with blue eyes and a good deal of curling auburn hair," said Tod, who was growing feverish. Jenkins wrote it down--"Name, Todhetley. What Christian name?" "Adalena, called 'Lena.'" "Recollect the dress, sir?" "Pale blue silk; straw hat with wreath of daisies round it; open-worked white stockings, and thin black shoes; white drawers," recounted Tod, as if he had prepared the list by heart coming along. "That's bad, that dress is," said Jenkins, putting down the pen. "Why is it bad?"