It was a certain amount of comfort to have some definite idea to go to work upon, but even then there were so many possibilities of danger that the poor woman shuddered as she thought of it.
Well, there was nothing to be done but to start off again. It was now quite dark, and pouring with rain. Mrs. McDougall was already very wet, but she never gave it a thought. She walked briskly along the road leading in the opposite direction from the one to Dunster. Every now and then she stopped and listened intently, peering among the trees that skirted the road or across the expanse of moor. She only met one person, an old woman, trudging along in the rain, and at last she had arrived at the town she had left only a few hours before, which lay ten miles distant from her own cottage.
Only to find fresh disappointment. No one could give her the least information. They had not been seen in the place, so far as she could learn, and so there was nothing to be done but to tramp back again all that weary ten miles.
Yes, one thing. It seemed a dreadful step, but it must be done. She was face to face with the fact that the children were lost, and the chance of finding them that night was now small indeed. With a few inquiries she found her way to the police-station, and there she told her story—told it with a grim soberness on her face that might have passed for unconcern with those stupid people, who think that what they cannot read has no existence.
"They'll be found, never fear," said a kindly policeman. "To-morrow morning the description will be telegraphed to every town in the country. There'll be posters out everywhere, and they can't fail to be found by some one."
"To-morrow morning! And what about to-night?" Mrs. McDougall asked.
"Nothing can be done to-night! it's nearly eleven now," the man replied. "You just go home, and don't worry. They're safe somewhere, I'll be bound—perhaps nearer at hand than you have any idea of."
It was true enough: there was nothing further to be done—nothing but to tramp back with that heavy load of care and the dread of terrors too great to put into words.
So she took her way home again. It was long past midnight when she reached the cottage. Grannie was waiting up, crooning to herself over the fire. On the table lay the book and the tie bought for Elsie's birthday.
Mrs. McDougall took them up hastily, and put them out of sight. "Go to bed, mother," she said; "they'll be home to-morrow."