The Wall Street Farmer and McGullicuddy had already broken into a run. The shepherd had found the tracks of many little hoofs on the dewy ground. And he was following the trail. The guest, swearing and panting, was behind him. The Mistress and the Master brought up the rear. At every step they peered fearfully around them for what they dreaded to see--the mangled body of some slain sheep. But they saw none. And they followed the trail. In a quarter mile they came to its end. All four flashlights played simultaneously upon a tiny hillock that rose from the meadow at the forest edge. The hillock was usually green. Now it was white. Around its short slopes was huddled a flock of sheep, as close-ringed as though by a fence. At the hillock's summit sat Lad. He was sitting there in a queer attitude, one of his snowy forepaws pinning something to the ground--something that could not be clearly distinguished through the huddle but which, evidently, was no sheep. The Wall Street Farmer broke the tense silence with a gobbled exclamation. "Whisht!" half reverently interrupted the shepherd, who had been circling the hillock on census duty. "There's na a sheep gone, nor--so far's I can see--a sheep hurted. The fu' twenty is there." The Master's flashlight found a gap through which its rays could reach the hillock crest. The light revealed, under Lad's gently pinioning forepaw, the crouching and badly scared Melisande--the $1100 Prussian sheep dog. McGullicuddy, with a grunt, was off on another and longer tour of inspection. Presently he came back. He was breathing hard. Even before McGillicuddy made his report the Master had guessed at the main points of the mystery's solution. Melisande, weary of captivity, had gnawed through her leash. Seeking sport, she had gone to the paddock. There she had easily worried loose the crazy gate latch. Just as she was wriggling through, Lad appeared from the veranda. He had tried to drive back the would-be killer from her prey. Lad was a veteran of several battles. But, apart from her sex, Melisande was no opponent for him. And he had treated her accordingly. Melisande had snapped at him, cutting him deeply in the underjaw. During the scrimmage the panic-urged sheep had bolted out of the paddock and had scattered. Remember, please, that Lad, ten hours earlier, had never in his life seen a sheep. But remember, too, that a million of his ancestors had won their right to a livelihood by their almost supernatural skill at herding flocks. Let this explain what actually happened--the throwback of a great collie's instinct. Driving the scared and subdued Melisande before him--and ever hampered by her unwelcome presence--Lad proceeded to round up the scattered sheep. He was in the midst of the process when the Master called him. Merely galloping back for an instant, and finding the summons was not repeated, he returned to his atavistic task.