“You may be right,” said Dick. “Look, here’s a bus-stop — and a time-table!”

A bus did apparently go quite near Ravens Wood, and was due in five minutes’ time. They sat down on the bus-stop seat and waited. The bus was punctual and came rumbling down the road, full of women going to Ravens Market. They all seemed very plump women and had enormous baskets, so it was difficult to squeeze inside.

Everyone got out at Ravens Market. Julian asked his way to Ravens Wood. “There it is,” said the conductor, pointing down the hill to where trees grew thickly in the valley. “It’s a big place. Don’t get lost! And look out for the gipsies. There’s usually hordes of them there!”

“Thanks,” said Julian, and the three of them set off down the hill into the valley. They came to the wood.

“It’s a proper wood,” said Anne. “Nothing but trees and trees. I should think it gets very thick in the middle — like a forest.”

They came to a clearing where there was a little gipsy camp. Three rather dirty-looking caravans stood together, and a crowd of brown gipsy children were playing some sort of a game with a rope. Julian took a quick look at the caravans. All had their doors open.

“No George here,” he said in a low voice to the others. “I wish I knew exactly where to go! I suppose if we follow this broad pathway it would be best. After all, Jo’s caravan must have a fairly broad way to go on.”

“Can’t we ask if anyone knows if Jo’s caravan is anywhere about?” said Anne.

“We don’t know her father’s name,” said Julian.

“But we could say it’s a caravan drawn by a horse called Blackie, and that a girl called Jo lives in it with her father,” said Anne.

“Yes. I’d forgotten the horse,” said Julian. He went up to an old woman who was stirring something in a black pot over a fire of sticks. Julian thought she looked very like a witch. She peered up at him through tangled grey hair.

“Can you tell me if there’s a caravan in the wood drawn by a horse called Blackie?” he asked politely. “A girl called Jo lives in it with her father. We want to see her.”

The old woman blinked. She took an iron spoon out of the pot and waved it to the right.

“Simmy’s gone down-away there,” she said. “I never saw Jo this time — but the caravan door was shut so maybe she was inside. What you want with Jo?”

“Oh — only just to see her,” said Julian, quite unable to think up a good reason for going to visit a gipsy-child on the spur of the moment. “Is Simmy her father?”

The old woman nodded and began to stir her pot again. Julian went back to the others.

“This way,” he said, and they went down the rutted path. It was just wide enough for a caravan to go down. Anne looked up. Tree branches waved overhead.