'Why, hallo!' exclaimed the doctor, peering forward.
To the right of the road, a little ahead of him, stood a woman. She had drawn aside, close to the hedge, doubtless to let them pass. The rays of the gig lamp fell full on her—a broad-shouldered woman of more than ordinary height. Over her head was flung a dark shawl, and her left hand held its edges tightly together at the throat. In her right she carried a leathern bag. This was as much as the doctor could see, for the shawl concealed her features. He could not recognise her at all, though he knew, or believed that he knew, everybody—man, woman, or child—within a radius of ten miles. But Doctor Unonius was ever polite.
'Hey? Good-evening, ma'am!' he sang out. 'You startled the old horse a bit. I hope he has not frightened you?'
There was no answer.
'Can I offer you a lift, ma'am, if you're going my way? The hour is late, and the weather none too pleasant for tramping these high moors.'
Still there was no answer.
'You needn't be afraid of Dapple,' he assured her. 'He'll stand still as a rock now, if you'll climb up.'
'Thank you,' she answered at last, with a hesitating step forward, and the voice was hoarse and constrained.
'Come round to the other side then. Here, give me your bag.'
The woman crossed in front of Dapple—who backed a foot or so uneasily—came around to the step, and handed up her bag. It was a two-handled bag, of japanned leather, and Doctor Unonius, as he took it from her and rested it against the splashboard, noted also that it was exceedingly heavy. He held out his hand. The woman grasped it, and clambered up beside him.