"Oh, she probably fell down the well," muttered the cat, walking unconcernedly toward the kitchen. "You don't really mean that she fell down the well?" begged Philador, running distractedly after the unfeeling creature. "Not really?" "How should I know?" yawned the cat. "The milk is in that chest, boy. Just pour me a full saucer, will you?" Her eyes glittered so cruelly and she sharpened her claws so suggestively on the rug, Philador hastily opened the chest, took out a jug of milk and poured her a full saucer. Then dropping into a kitchen chair he wondered what in Oz to do next. He had counted so entirely on Tattypoo's help that without her he felt utterly lost and bewildered. The witch's cat looked at him curiously from time to time and after she had finished her milk, deigned to speak. "There might be a message on the slate by the stove," she announced stepping daintily through the open door into the forest. Immediately Philador rushed over to the stove. Sure enough, there was a slate hanging on the wall, but there was nothing written on it. With a sigh the little boy was turning away, when the pencil hanging on a cord beside the slate moved upward and began to write on the smooth black surface. Philador's scalp prickled uncomfortably at this odd occurrence, but recovering himself quickly, he leaned forward to read the message. "The good witch of the North will never return!" stated the pencil mournfully, and falling the full length of the cord swung excitedly to and fro. Such a message was almost worse than none and Philador stared in horror at the gloomy announcement. If Tattypoo never was coming back, how could she help him save the Kingdom, and without Tattypoo to help him how was he to save the Ozure Isles all by himself? The slate must have been of a magic sort, for while the little Prince stood dismally wondering what to do, the pencil began scribbling a second message. "Go to the Emerald City, Ozma of Oz will help you," wrote the pencil in a firm, decided hand. Philador waited a few minutes to see whether any more advice was coming but the pencil dropped beside the slate and refused to write another word. With only two days left before Quiberon would destroy his father's Kingdom, the little boy did not see how he was ever to reach the Emerald City in time, especially as he did not even know in which direction it lay. Going over to the little window he drew aside the checked curtain and looked out. Deep and impenetrable, the purple forest loomed up on all sides, and with a long sigh Philador let the curtain drop and went back to his chair. But it was not long before his natural courage and cheerfulness began to reassert itself. Surely the good witch's slate would not advise him to go to the Emerald City if the journey were impossible and, jumping up resolutely, Philador began to make his preparations.