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 Pollyooly did not ask what they were; her limpid blue eyes were scanning the surrounding country.

Sometimes he would deliberately set a trap for her and as often as not he caught her. His suspicions grew and grew, but he did not confide them to any one. Even if he had been willing to get Pollyooly into trouble, as he was not, he was very strongly of the opinion that all the grown-ups would laugh at him for such suspicions. After all, that Marion should be some one else was incredible.

Then he attained certainty. One afternoon they had wandered into a part of the estate new to Pollyooly, and they came out of a wood to see on the hillside, half a mile away, a windmill with whirling sails.

"Whatever's that?" cried Pollyooly, startled out of her caution by the sight. There had been no windmills in the country round Muttle-Deeping.

"Whatever's what?" said Ronald.

"That thing turning round," said Pollyooly, pointing to the windmill.

"That settles it," said Ronald, throwing himself down on the turf. "If you were Marion, you'd have seen that windmill a dozen times and the