Wondering what he had better do, Pompton turned the car around, and slowly went back toward Pelton.  At every crossroad or side path into the woods he paused and shouted, but heard no response.  When at last he came near the place where the children had really turned off toward the brook, he stopped and looked about.  Seeing smoke issuing from among the trees at a little distance, he thought, “That’s a gypsy camp.  Now wouldn’t it be just like those youngsters to trail in there?  Anyway it’s the most likely place, and I’m going to have a look.”

Leaving his car by the side of the road, Pompton struck into the field, and soon came to the little bridge just beyond which the old basket-weaver still sat.

“Have you seen anything of two children?” Pompton inquired, civilly.

“No,” growled the man, looking up and frowning a little.

“Well, I’m fairly sure they came in here from the road about half an hour ago.  Perhaps you didn’t notice them.  I’ll just take a look round.”  He started in the direction of the camp, but the man called him back.

“I tell you no children have been near here,” he said, in a voice slightly less surly.  “If they had, they’d have had to cross this bridge, and I couldn’t miss seeing them.  I’ve been here two hours.”

This seemed conclusive, and Pompton had no reason to think the man was not telling the truth.  But he was without doubt a gypsy, and Pompton had small respect for the veracity of the gypsy.  He waited a few moments, pretending to be interested in the man’s basketry, but really considering whether to insist on going on to the camp hidden in the trees, or whether to believe the man’s statement.

And it was at this moment that Marjorie’s shrieks rang out.

“Good heavens!” cried Pompton.  “What is that?”

The basket-weaver neither heard nor answered him, for the shrieks continued, and Pompton set off at a run in the direction whence they came.  He was not quite sure it was Marjorie’s voice, but there was certainly somebody in distress, and Pompton was of a valiant nature.

The smoke issuing above the trees was sufficient guide, and his flying steps soon brought him to the encampment.  Flinging open, indeed almost tearing down the flapping door of the tent, he strode inside.

“What’s the matter here?” he began, but he could get no further, for with a glad cry the two Maynard children flung themselves into his out-stretched arms.

CHAPTER VI

AT GRANDMA SHERWOOD’S

Aside from his threatening face, red with rage, and stormy with indignation, Pompton’s terrifying aspect was increased by the chauffeur’s costume which he wore.  His goggles were pushed up on his brow, but his eyes darted vengeance, and the three gypsy women were completely cowed at the sight of him.

“You shall pay for this outrage!” he exclaimed; “and don’t think you will be let down easy!  Kidnapping is a crime that is well punished, and your punishment shall be to the full!  I shall take these children away now, but don’t think you can escape!  I will see to that!  Where are your men folks?”