The Policeman was deepening the three short lines in the dirt, making a capital A.  “Two streets come together,” he said, placing his finger on the point of the letter.  “And the block that connects ’em just before they meet, that’s the beat for me.”

“I hope you’ll get it,” she said heartily.

“Get it!” he repeated bitterly.  “Well, I certainly won’t if I don’t find that Bird!” And he started forward once more.

The Man-Who-Makes-Faces, trudging alongside, craned to peer ahead, his grizzled beard sticking straight out in front of him.  “Now, let me see,” he mused in a puzzled way.  “Which route, I wonder, had we better take?”

“That depends on where we’re going,” replied the Policeman, helplessly.  “And with the Bird gone, of course I don’t know.”

“I’ll tell you,” said the little old gentleman promptly.  “First, we must cross the Glass—­”

Gwendolyn gave him a quick glance.  Surely he meant cross the grass.

“Yes, the Glass; go on,” encouraged the Officer.

“—­And find him.”  Those round dark eyes darted a quick glance at Gwendolyn.

Jane, capering at his heels, now interrupted.  “Find him!” she taunted.  “Gwendolyn’ll never find her father if she don’t listen to me.”

He ignored her.  “Next,” he went on “we’ll steer straight for Robin Hood’s Barn.”

“Oh!” exclaimed the Policeman “Then we have to go around.”

“Everybody has to go around.”

Once more Jane broke in.  “Gwendolyn,” she called, “you’ll never find your mother.  This precious pair is takin’ you the wrong way!”

Gwendolyn paid no heed.  Ahead the road divided—­to the left in a narrow bridle-path, all loose soil and hoof-prints, and sharp turns; to the right in a level thoroughfare that held a straight course.  She touched the little old gentleman’s elbow.  “Which?” she whispered.

As the parting of the ways was reached, he pointed.  And she saw a sign—­a sign with an arrow directing travelers to the right.  Under the arrow, plainly lettered, were the words: 

    To the Bear’s Den.

Gwendolyn looked her concern.  “Do we have to go that road?” she asked him.

He nodded.

The next moment, with a loud rumbling of the eyes, Jane came alongside.  “Oh, dearie,” she cried, “you couldn’t hire me to go.  And I wouldn’t like to see you go.  I think too much of you, I do indeed.”

“Hold your tongue!” ordered the little old gentleman, crossly.

Jane obeyed.  Up came a hand, and she seized the tongue-tip in her front mouth.  But since there was a second tongue-tip in that back face, she still continued her babbling:  “Don’t ask me to trapse over the hard pavements on my poor tired feet, dearie, just because you take your notions....  Come, I say!  Your mother’s nobody, anyhow....  You don’t know what you’re sayin’ or doin’, poor thing!  You’re just wanderin’, that’s all—­just wanderin’.”