“Nothing,” he said.
No violence was offered to her; she was not bound, or restricted in any way, though she knew it was perfectly hopeless for her to dream of escape.
They were running along a dark country road when the car slowed and stopped. The passengers turned out quickly; she was the last. A man caught her arm as she descended and led her, through an opening of the hedge, into what seemed to her to be a ploughed field.
The other came after her, bringing her an oilskin coat and helping her into it.
The rain flogged across the waste, rattling against the oil-coat; she heard the man holding her arm mutter something under his breath. The Frog walked ahead, only looking back once. She slipped and stumbled, and would have often fallen but for the hand which held her up.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked at last.
There was no reply. She wondered if she could wrench herself free, and trust to the cover of darkness to hide her, but even as the thought occurred, she saw a gleam of water to the right—a round, ghostly patch.
“These are Morby Fields,” she said suddenly, recognizing the place. “You’re taking me to the quarry.”
Again no answer. They tramped on doggedly, until she knew they were within measurable distance of the quarry itself. She wondered what would be her fate when she finally refused, as she would refuse. Did this terrible man intend to kill her?
“Wait,” said the Frog suddenly, and disappeared into the gloom.