Wiggles seemed uncertain what to do. He sniffed the air, and whined afresh. Was it that he did not know Phyllys' whereabouts? Or was he stupid? Many affectionate little dogs are not brilliant in an emergency. Giles put matters to the test. He set off at a resolute pace, as if for Midfell. That settled it. Wiggles refused to go. He struggled, protested, howled, sat down. He might be dragged, but he would not walk. Giles ceased to pull, and Wiggles moved in a new direction, gaining confidence as he found Giles with him. He led away from the track, across the turf, and Giles followed, urging him on, trying to keep note of his bearings, though unsuccessfully. That troubled him little. If he could reach Phyllys, all else was of small importance. "Phyllys—Phyllys!" he called again. And out of the dead stillness rang an agonised cry. He knew the voice. "I'm here! Where are you?" "O come! O save me!" she screamed, her bell-like tones for once thin and shrill with horror. He dashed headlong in the direction whence the sound travelled. CHAPTER VIII MR. DUGDALE'S OUTSPOKENNESS THE model village of Castlemere had a fine aged church of grey stone, with solid square tower and the sweetest chime of bells in the county. A comfortable Rectory adjoined the churchyard; and picture cottages, inhabited by well-to-do tenants, clustered around. Giles Randolph was a liberal landlord. Castle Hill House, half-a-mile distant, was united to the village by a private road, running through park and avenue; and nearly two miles from Castlemere, in the other direction, flourished a country town, Market Oakley by name. At the better end of the town, its "west-end," so to speak, was the parish of S. John's, impinging in one direction on the extensive parish of Castlemere. Outside Market Oakley, in this direction, was Brook-End Grange, the home of Mr. Dugdale's daughter, Kathleen Alyn, a young widow, with one little boy. She stood on the lawn, her gown flowing round her in a fashion peculiar to herself. Whatever she wore flowed, and did not hang or drag. The gown was perfect in make, for she never employed a second-rate dressmaker; and her fair hair was equally perfect in arrangement, for she always had a first-rate maid. Though she owned no good looks worth mentioning, few people observed her once only. There was repose in her bearing; and she was markedly graceful. No hat sheltered her head. She would run out thus—though "run" is hardly the word for her gradual movements—into the charming, old-fashioned garden, at any moment, at any time of the year, even in winter with deep snow upon the ground. Now the stiff box hedges contrasted with abundant leafage; and the quaint borders were crammed with flowers. She was intently observing; a queer little smile on her lips.