“No,” said the man in the yellow suit.

The constable waited for more, but there was no more. His sour mood returned. He frowned and shook the ashes from his cigar. “Say,” he said. “You’re kind of a close-lipped feller, ain’t you?”

The man in the yellow suit narrowed his eyes. His mouth, above the thin gray beard, twitched with annoyance. “Look here,” he said tightly. “Would you mind if I rode on ahead? I’m worried about that child. I’ll tell you how to get there, and I’ll go on ahead and keep watch.”

“Well,” said the constable grudgingly, “all right, if you’re in such a ding-danged hurry. But don’t do nothing till I get there. Those folks are likely dangerous. I’ll try to keep up, but this horse of mine, she’s none too strong. Don’t see as how I could get her to a gallop, even if I tried.”

“That’s right,” said the man in the yellow suit. “So I’ll go on ahead, and wait outside the house till you get there.”

He explained the route carefully, then dug his heels into the flanks of the fat old horse, cantering off into the darkness where just a hint of dawn glowed on the edges of the hills far ahead.

The constable chewed on the end of his cigar. “Humph,” he said to his horse. “Did you get a gander at that suit of clothes? Oh, well, it takes all kinds, as they say.” And he followed slowly after, yawning, the gap between him and the man ahead lengthening with every mile.

17

For the second morning in a row, Winnie Foster woke early. Outside, in the ring of trees around the pond, the birds were celebrating, giving the new day a brass band’s worth of greeting. Winnie freed herself from the twisted quilt and went to a window. Mist lay on the surface of the water, and the light was still pale. It looked unreal, and she felt, herself, unreal, waking where she had, with her hair wild and her dress all crumpled. She rubbed her eyes. Through the dewy weeds below the window, a toad hopped suddenly into view and Winnie peered at it eagerly. But no—of course it wasn’t the same toad. And remembering that other toad—her toad, she thought now, almost fondly—it seemed to her that she had been away from home for weeks. Then she heard a step on the loft stairs and thought, “Jesse!” At once her cheeks flamed.

But it was Miles. He came into the parlor, and when he saw that she was up, he smiled and whispered, “Good! You’re awake. Come on—you can help me catch some fish for breakfast.”

This time, Winnie was careful not to make a noise when she climbed into the rowboat. She made her way to her seat in the stern, and Miles handed her two old cane poles—“Watch out for the hooks!” he warned—and a jar of bait: pork fat cut into little pieces. A big brown night moth fluttered out from under the oar blades propped beside her on the seat, and wobbled off toward nowhere through the fragrant air. And from the bank, something plopped into the water. A frog! Winnie caught just a glimpse of it as it scissored away from shore. The water was so clear that she could see tiny brown fish near the bottom, flicking this way and that.