“How far?” he asked Breton as they walked away from the station.
“We’d better discuss matters,” answered Breton. “The place is in a narrow valley called Fossdale, some six or seven miles away across these fells, and as wild a walk as any lover of such things could wish for. It’s half-past nine now, Spargo: I reckon it will take us a good two and a half hours, if not more, to do it. Now, the question is—Do we go straight there, or do we put up for the night? There’s an inn here at this junction: there’s the Moor Cock Inn a mile or so along the road which we must take before we turn off to the moorland and the fells. It’s going to be a black night—look at those masses of black cloud gathering there!—and possibly a wet one, and we’ve no waterproofs. But it’s for you to say—I’m game for whatever you like.”
“Do you know the way?” asked Spargo.
“I’ve been the way. In the daytime I could go straight ahead. I remember all the landmarks. Even in the darkness I believe I can find my way. But it’s rough walking.”
“We’ll go straight there,” said Spargo. “Every minute’s precious. But—can we get a mouthful of bread and cheese and a glass of ale first?”
“Good idea! We’ll call in at the ‘Moor Cock.’ Now then, while we’re on this firm road, step it out lively.”
The “Moor Cock” was almost deserted at that hour: there was scarcely a soul in it when the two travellers turned in to its dimly-lighted parlour. The landlord, bringing the desired refreshment, looked hard at Breton.
“Come our way again then, sir?” he remarked with a sudden grin of recognition.
“Ah, you remember me?” said Breton.
“I call in mind when you came here with the two old gents last year,” replied the landlord. “I hear they’re here again—Tom Summers was coming across that way this morning, and said he’d seen ’em at the little cottage. Going to join ’em, I reckon, sir?”
Breton kicked Spargo under the table.
“Yes, we’re going to have a day or two with them,” he answered. “Just to get a breath of your moorland air.”
“Well, you’ll have a roughish walk over there tonight, gentlemen,” said the landlord. “There’s going to be a storm. And it’s a stiffish way to make out at this time o’night.”
“Oh, we’ll manage,” said Breton, nonchalantly. “I know the way, and we’re not afraid of a wet skin.”
The landlord laughed, and sitting down on his long settle folded his arms and scratched his elbows.
“There was a gentleman—London gentleman by his tongue—came in here this afternoon, and asked the way to Fossdale,” he observed. “He’ll be there long since—he’d have daylight for his walk. Happen he’s one of your party?—he asked where the old gentlemen’s little cottage was.”
Again Spargo felt his shin kicked and made no sign. “One of their friends, perhaps,” answered Breton. “What was he like?”
The landlord ruminated. He was not good at description and was conscious of the fact.
“Well, a darkish, serious-faced gentleman,” he said. “Stranger hereabouts, at all events. Wore a grey suit—something like your friend’s there. Yes—he took some bread and cheese with him when he heard what a long way it was.”
“Wise man,” remarked Breton. He hastily finished his own bread and cheese, and drank off the rest of his pint of ale. “Come on,” he said, “let’s be stepping.”
Outside, in the almost tangible darkness, Breton clutched Spargo’s arm. “Who’s the man?” he said. “Can you think, Spargo?”
“Can’t,” answered Spargo. “I was trying to, while that chap was talking. But—it’s somebody that’s got in before us. Not Rathbury, anyhow—he’s not serious-faced. Heavens, Breton, however are you going to find your way in this darkness?”
“You’ll see presently. We follow the road a little. Then we turn up the fell side there. On the top, if the night clears a bit, we ought to see Great Shunnor Fell and Lovely Seat—they’re both well over two thousand feet, and they stand up well. We want to make for a point clear between them. But I warn you, Spargo, it’s stiff going!”
“Go ahead!” said Spargo. “It’s the first time in my life I ever did anything of this sort, but we’re going on if it takes us all night. I couldn’t sleep in any bed now that I’ve heard there’s somebody ahead of us. Go first, old chap, and I’ll follow.”
Breton went steadily forward along the road. That was easy work, but when he turned off and began to thread his way up the fell-side by what was obviously no more than a sheep-track, Spargo’s troubles began. It seemed to him that he was walking as in a nightmare; all that he saw was magnified and heightened; the darkening sky above; the faint outlines of the towering hills; the gaunt spectres of fir and pine; the figure of Breton forging stolidly and surely ahead. Now the ground was soft and spongy under his feet; now it was stony and rugged; more than once he caught an ankle in the wire-like heather and tripped, bruising his knees. And in the end he resigned himself to keeping his eye on Breton, outlined against the sky, and following doggedly in his footsteps.
“Was there no other way than this?” he asked after a long interval of silence. “Do you mean to say those two—Elphick and Cardlestone—would take
