The tall young constables and the plump fatherly sergeant annoyed old Jenks by searching the wood as though he had done nothing. It was a real search this time. Each of them took a part of the ground and went over it as though he were looking for a needle which had been lost, and no less than three of them trod every inch of the bottom of the Secret Pond. They took shovels and opened up an old fox’s earth; and a sad-looking man in shabby plain clothes arrived and walked about smoking a pipe—a detective! Up from the village, too, came the big young curate and the squire’s two sons, civil and sympathetic and eager to be helpful; they all thought it natural that mother should be anxious, but refused to credit for an instant that anything could have happened to Joan. “That baby!” urged the curate. “Why, my dear lady, Joan is better known hereabouts than King George himself. No one could take her a mile without having to answer questions. I don’t know what’s keeping her, but you may be sure she’s all right.” “’Course she is,” chorused the others, swinging their sticks light-heartedly. “’Course she’s all right.” “Get her for me, then,” said mother. “I don’t want to be silly and you’re awfully good. But I must have her; I must have her. I—I want her.” The squire’s sons turned as if on an order and went toward the wood. The curate lingered a moment. He was a huge youth, an athlete and a gentleman, and his hard, clean-shaven face could be kind and serious. “We’re sure to get her,” he said, in lower tones. “And you must help us with your faith and courage. Can you?” Mother’s hand tightened on that of Joyce. “We are doing our best,” she said, and smiled—she smiled! The curate nodded and went his way to the wood. A little later in the afternoon came Colonel Warden, the lord and master of all the police in the county, a gay, trim soldier whom the children knew and liked. With him, in his big automobile, were more policemen and a pair of queer liver-colored dogs, all baggy skin and bleary eyes—blood-hounds! Joyce felt that this really must settle it. Actual living blood-hounds would be more than a match for Joan. Colonel Warden was sure of it too. “Saves time,” he was telling mother, in his high snappy voice. “Shows us which way she’s gone, you know. Best hounds in the country, these two; never known ’em fail yet.” The dogs were limp and quiet as he led them through the wood, strange ungainly mechanisms which a whiff of a scent could set in motion. A pinafore which Joan had worn at breakfast was served to them for an indication of the work they had to do; they snuffed at it languidly for some seconds. Then the colonel unleashed them.