They passed out of the ring of hills around Lake Desolate, and mounted a hilly path that led toward the Giant’s Head. The country was very beautiful on this side of the Lake, but Molly had no eyes for the beauty of the scene at present. She was trying to puzzle out the meaning of her letter, and the meaning of Miss Lydia’s story. Had the Pumpkin any special purpose in making Miss Lydia blind—or was it just one of his wicked whims? And why had his spies led Miss Lydia to this Lake, and then tried to prevent Molly from helping her? Surely, if the spies had wished to prevent Molly from helping the blind lady it would have been an easy matter for them to keep Miss Lydia out of the way ... to have led her to another lake. On the other hand, if they did want her to help Miss Lydia, why had they sent that letter; the chances were that Molly would obey the instructions in the letter. Yes, she certainly might have obeyed them—if she hadn’t seen Miss Lydia’s photo in Mrs Jennet’s album. It was all very puzzling to Molly. It was rather slow work leading Miss Lydia, as she walked hesitatingly over the rough, uneven ground, but after a time—a long, long time, it seemed to Molly—they reached the Giant’s Head, and started to work their way up and round the side of the hill. Molly sighed as she looked back and thought of all the ground she would have to go over again and search—right from here to the Brown Hills in the distance. But she must see Miss Lydia safely home first, and do anything she could to help her. She found herself wondering how all the other searchers were getting on and whether any of them had finished searching their part of the country yet—or whether any of them were, unknowingly, nearing success. Rounding the hill, they came in sight of Miss Lydia’s cottage. A pretty, creeper-clad cottage, perched on the hillside, it peeped out of its bushy garden down at the road far below. Behind the cottage the Giant’s Head rose up against the sky. It was a lovely, lonely spot. Molly led Miss Lydia to the gate. “This is right, isn’t it?” she asked. Miss Lydia felt the top of the gate. “Yes, this is home,” she said. “Thank you ... my dear. I don’t know how to thank you. You’ll come in with me, won’t you? Oh, don’t leave me till I’m indoors.” “I won’t leave you till you’re indoors,” said Molly, genuinely sorry for Miss Lydia in her helpless plight. She helped Miss Lydia to open her front door, and the two entered the cottage together. What would Molly’s feelings have been had she looked out into the garden a moment later, and seen the crouching figure that rose, and emerged from behind a clump of bushes as soon as the door was shut? It was an old woman with little darting eyes and a red scarf wound round her head. Creeping along, the old woman pushed her way through a broken fence at the end of the garden, and, darting behind a group of trees close by, began to signal wildly to some one at the bottom of the hill. CHAPTER XIX