“There is another way—down the valley, by Thwaite Bridge and Hardraw,” answered Breton, “but it’s miles and miles round. This is a straight cut across country, and in daylight it’s a delightful walk. But at night—Gad!—here’s the rain, Spargo!”
The rain came down as it does in that part of the world, with a suddenness that was as fierce as it was heavy. The whole of the grey night was blotted out; Spargo was only conscious that he stood in a vast solitude and was being gradually drowned. But Breton, whose sight was keener, and who had more knowledge of the situation dragged his companion into the shelter of a group of rocks. He laughed a little as they huddled closely together.
“This is a different sort of thing to pursuing detective work in Fleet Street, Spargo,” he said. “You would come on, you know.”
“I’m going on if we go through cataracts and floods,” answered Spargo. “I might have been induced to stop at the ‘Moor Cock’ overnight if we hadn’t heard of that chap in front. If he’s after those two he’s somebody who knows something. What I can’t make out is—who he can be.”
“Nor I,” said Breton. “I can’t think of anybody who knows of this retreat. But—has it ever struck you, Spargo, that somebody beside yourself may have been investigating?”
“Possible,” replied Spargo. “One never knows. I only wish we’d been a few hours earlier. For I wanted to have the first word with those two.”
The rain ceased as suddenly as it had come. Just as suddenly the heavens cleared. And going forward to the top of the ridge which they were then crossing, Breton pointed an arm to something shining far away below them.
“You see that?” he said. “That’s a sheet of water lying between us and Cotterdale. We leave that on our right hand, climb the fell beyond it, drop down into Cotterdale, cross two more ranges of fell, and come down into Fossdale under Lovely Seat. There’s a good two hours and a half stiff pull yet, Spargo. Think you can stick it?”
Spargo set his teeth.
“Go on!” he said.
Up hill, down dale, now up to his ankles in peaty ground, now tearing his shins, now bruising his knees, Spargo, yearning for the London lights, the well-paved London streets, the convenient taxicab, even the humble omnibus, plodded forward after his guide. It seemed to him that they had walked for ages and had traversed a whole continent of mountains and valley when at last Breton, halting on the summit of a windswept ridge, laid one hand on his companion’s shoulder and pointed downward with the other.
“There!” he said. “There!”
Spargo looked ahead into the night. Far away, at what seemed to him to be a considerable distance, he saw the faint, very faint glimmer of a light—a mere spark of a light.
“That’s the cottage,” said Breton, “Late as it is, you see, they’re up. And here’s the roughest bit of the journey. It’ll take me all my time to find the track across this moor, Spargo, so step carefully after me—there are bogs and holes hereabouts.”
Another hour had gone by ere the two came to the cottage. Sometimes the guiding light had vanished, blotted out by intervening rises in the ground; always, when they saw it again, they were slowly drawing nearer to it. And now when they were at last close to it, Spargo realized that he found himself in one of the loneliest places he had ever been capable of imagining—so lonely and desolate a spot he had certainly never seen. In the dim light he could see a narrow, crawling stream, making its way down over rocks and stones from the high ground of Great Shunnor Fell. Opposite to the place at which they stood, on the edge of the moorland, a horseshoe like formation of ground was backed by a ring of fir and pine; beneath this protecting fringe of trees stood a small building of grey stone which looked as if it had been originally built by some shepherd as a pen for the moorland sheep. It was of no more than one storey in height, but of some length; a considerable part of it was hidden by shrubs and brushwood. And from one uncurtained, blindless window the light of a lamp shone boldly into the fading darkness without.
Breton pulled up on the edge of the crawling stream.
“We’ve got to get across there, Spargo,” he said. “But as we’re already soaked to the knee it doesn’t matter about getting another wetting. Have you any idea how long we’ve been walking?”
“Hours—days—years!” replied Spargo.
“I should say quite four hours,” said Breton. “In that case, it’s well past two o’clock, and the light will be breaking in another hour or so. Now, once across this stream, what shall we do?”
“What have we come to do? Go to the cottage, of course!”
“Wait a bit. No need to startle them. By the fact they’ve got a light, I take it that they’re up. Look there!”
As he spoke, a figure crossed the window passing between it and the light.
“That’s not Elphick, nor yet Cardlestone,” said Spargo. “They’re medium-heighted men. That’s a tallish man.”
“Then it’s the man the landlord of the ‘Moor Cock’ told us about,” said Breton. “Now, look here—I know every inch of this place. When we’re across let me go up to the cottage, and I’ll take an observation through that window and see who’s inside. Come on.”
He led Spargo across the stream at a place where a succession of boulders made a natural bridge, and bidding him keep quiet, went up the bank to the cottage. Spargo, watching him, saw him make his way past the shrubs and undergrowth until he came to a great bush which stood between the lighted window and the projecting porch of the cottage. He lingered in the shadow of this bush but for a short moment; then came swiftly and noiselessly back to his companion. His hand fell on Spargo’s
