“I don’t believe they did send him in,” said Joe, despairingly.
“They must. He couldn’t have climbed down the ladders or got into the skep of his own accord, and, if he had, they wouldn’t have let him down. They sent him, I’m sure.”
“No, I’m afraid not,” said Joe, piteously; “they didn’t send him.”
“How do you know?”
“Because if they had, they would have done what people always do under such circumstances—written a note, and tied it to the dog’s collar. He had no note tied to his collar, I’m sure.”
“No, I didn’t see or feel any,” said Gwyn, thoughtfully.
“No; we should have been sure to see it if he had one; so, for certain, the dog came of his own will, and I don’t think it’s likely he’ll come again. He may or he may not.”
Gwyn did not feel as if he could combat this idea, for Joe’s notion that a note would have been tied to the dog’s collar—a note with a few encouraging words—seemed very probable; so he remained silent, listening intently for the faintest sound.
But the silence was more terrible than ever, and, saving the musical dash of water from time to time, and an occasional rustle as of a few grains of earth or sand trickling down from the walls, all was still.
“Hear him coming back?” said Gwyn, at last, very dismally.