The same question must have been in the mind of the dog. He was quiet now. Doubtfully, reluctantly, he was smelling at the prostrate human creature. I knelt down, and put my hand on the wretch's heart. Ponto, finding us both on a level together, gave me the dog's kiss; I returned the caress with my free hand. The servant saw me, with my attention divided in this way between the animal and the man. "Damn it, sir," he burst out indignantly, "isn't a Christian of more importance than a dog?" A Christian!--but I was in no humor to waste words. "Are you strong enough to carry him to his own side of the house?" I asked. "I won't touch him, if he's dead!" "He is _not_ dead. Take him away!" All this time my mind was pre-occupied by the extraordinary appearance of the rocket, rising from the neighborhood of a lonely little village between midnight and one in the morning. How I connected that mysterious signal with a possibility of tracing Cristel, it is useless to inquire. That was the thought in me, when I led my lost darling's father back to his room. Without stopping to explain myself, I reminded him that the cottage was quiet again, and told him to wait my return. In the kitchen, I overtook the servant and his burden. The door of communication (by which they had entered) was still open. "Lock that door," I said. "Lock it yourself," he answered; "I'll have nothing to do with this business." He passed through the doorway, and along the passage, and ascended his master's stairs. It struck me directly that the man had suggested a sure way of protecting Toller, during my absence. The miller's own door was already secured; I took the key, so as to be able to let myself in again--then passed through the door of communication--fastened it--and put the key in my pocket. The third door, by which the Cur entered his lodgings, was of course at my disposal. I had just closed it, when I discovered that I had a companion. Ponto had followed me. I felt at once that the dog's superior powers of divination might be of use, on such an errand as mine was. We set out together for Kylam. Wildly hurried--without any fixed idea in my mind--I ran to Kylam, for the greater part of the way. It was now very dark. On a sandy creek, below the village, I came in contact with something solid enough to hurt me for the moment. It was the stranded boat. A smoker generally has matches about him. Helped by my little short-lived lights, I examined the interior of the boat. There was absolutely nothing in it but a strip of old tarpaulin--used, as I guessed, to protect the boat, or something that it carried, in rainy weather.