The blood rushed all over the young gypsy’s face in an instant. He guessed that old Sarah had some hand in Stella’s disappearance, yet he had no more idea than Dakin as to where Stella was or what old Mrs. Carewe’s plans with regard to her could be. His own instructions had been simply to make love to the lady’s maid, and so to withdraw her attention from her mistress, and at this task he had succeeded only too well. He stood now, hesitating a moment, as Dakin addressed him. Old Sarah was about in the woods, probably, and James Carewe also; of that he felt as certain as that a gypsy’s caravan was encamped immediately outside the Chase demesne on a piece of waste land, not very far from the ruined tower. He must not meddle in grandame Sarah’s concerns for certain. If Sarah intended to spirit Stella away that night, she would most certainly do so, and if she did _not_ mean that, what was the sense of all her prophecies about Stella’s relenting toward him--Stephen--and showing signs of returning his love? He was so long silent that Dakin grew impatient. “Why, man,” she cried, “why are you standing, staring, there? She is lost in the wood--your young mistress--can’t you understand?” “I understand right enough,” he answered in a surly tone; “but I’ve got to think out for myself which path she’d be likely to take. You wait on the terrace steps, missis, and I’ll see if I can find her.” He struck into the wood, and made his way rapidly through the branches until he reached a point at which he calculated that Dakin could not hear him. The sky had grown very dark by this time with falling dusk, and the rain-clouds. Here, under the overarching branches, it was difficult even for Stephen’s hawk-eyes to distinguish anything. Stopping still, he uttered three times the same low, peculiar whistle with which he had heralded his approach to the ruined tower. Then he listened, and very faintly, as from some distance, he caught an answering sound. Again he gave the signal, and this time the responsive whistle was nearer, and the sound of breaking twigs heralded the approach of one or more persons through the brushwood. He hardly knew whether or not to feel surprised when, through an opening of the boughs, he perceived two female figures approaching him. One was Stella, with her white woollen shawl drawn about her head and shoulders, the other was _mami_ Sarah, looking very bent and tiny, as she hobbled along beside her tall companion. “You are here all right, then,” said the old woman to him. “Good boy--good boy! Now, see this young lady back into the house. She’s been having a little talk with poor old Sarah. She knows old Sarah’s her friend, don’t you, deary?” The girl bent her head in a dazed fashion, as it seemed to Stephen. He, for his part, utterly failed to understand the whole business.