And the scent of Cyril, though faint and fainter, and smothered under swirling snow, was not too dim for Lad's sensitive nostrils to catch and hold it.
The Master lumbered along, through the rising drifts, as fast as he could.

But the way was rough and the night was as black dark as it was cold.

In a few rods, the dog had far outdistanced him.

And, knowing how hard must be the trail to follow by sense of smell, he forbore to call back the questing collie, lest Lad lose the clew altogether.

He knew the dog was certain to bark the tidings when he should come up with the fugitive.
The Master by this time began to share his wife's worry.