She regarded him with a steady gaze; the blacksmith tried to hum a tune, and failing in this, mentioned it was high time he went back to finish his breakfast. “I have been walking around the neighbourhood,” the girl went on, “every day in the hope of finding him, and I haven’t succeeded. To-night, by the 6.37, I must go on, and—” with a break in her voice,—“I shall have to face Captain Stamford.” “My dear,” said Mrs. Marchant encouragingly, “you make it ten, and some’ing seems to tell me you’ll get your dog back.” “That would mean giving up my holiday,” she answered doubtfully. Young Banks, draper and grocer, stepped forward: some one pulled at his apron. “But if you think it will increase the efforts of the villagers, I’ll do as you suggest.” “Ten pound,” announced Mrs. Marchant, addressing the others in tones of authority, “to any one what brings this lady’s dog back here to The Windmill afore six o’clock this very evening.” The small crowd broke up. Children were sent off to school, and instructed in audible voices to keep a wary look-out for Fuzzy. The constable came from his headquarters at a neighbouring village, and was told of the increase in the reward; he went on to communicate the information, far and near. Mrs. Marchant took the cork from a bottle of red ink and made a correction in the handwritten bill headed “Lost, Stolen or Strayed” that rested on a box of caramels in her window. At half-past nine the London girl in a brown costume with a conveniently short skirt and carrying a walking-stick, left The Windmill and strode off in a northerly direction, the landlord wishing her, with great heartiness, good luck in her search; she sang out that she would return for tea. Ten minutes’ grace, and a meeting was held near to the porch of the tavern, with Mrs. Marchant in a standing position, but obviously in the chair. She glanced around at the four men present. “Some one go for Mr. Banks,” she ordered. Sprules took charge of the task, and returned with the message that the young draper and grocer was making up his books; Banks had suggested the deliberation should go on as though he were present. “I don’t want to complain of nobody,” commented Mrs. Marchant, “but Mr. Banks don’t seem to take the interest in public affairs like what he ought to do. Howsomever,” dismissing this point, “what we’ve got to consider now is whether we’ve come to what they call in the newspapers the crucial moment, or whether we ought to go on a bit further.” “Young party seems fairly bent on getting away this evening,” remarked the owner of The Windmill. “In fact, I may tell you all she’s settled up her bill.” “My idea is,” said Sprules, “that we’ve arrived at the limit. Enough is as good as a feast.” “Is the dog all right?” asked Mrs. Marchant. “Safe and sound,” replied the blacksmith, “where it’s been since it first slipped the collar. And I hope you won’t none of you forget that I’ve had to bear the axpense of feeding it.”