“I’m glad to know that. I asked because I’ve known trouble through shortage of water in the radiator. I suppose there was plenty that night?”
“The radiator was full; my son noticed it particularly. You see, on account of the mascot sticking out behind, you have to take off the radiator cap before you can lift the bonnet. When he was taking off the cap he noticed the water.”
French turned as if to close the discussion.
“I don’t think I need worry about the chance of more trouble with it,” he agreed. “Surely, Mr. Makepeace, you have her clean enough now? I think we’ll get away.”
As they swung out along the Tavistock road French’s heart had fallen to the depths. If what this garage owner said were true, the Berlyn-Pyke affair was an accident and he, French, was on the wrong track. However, he had made his plans and he would carry them out. Banishing his disappointment from his mind, he prepared to enjoy his trip.
The road led from the west end of the town through scenery which was more than enough to hold his attention. The country was charmingly wooded, but extraordinarily hilly. Never had French seen such hills. No sooner had they climbed interminably out of one valley than they were over the divide and dropping down an equally break-neck precipice into the next. French was interested in the notices to motor drivers adjuring them to put their cars into lowest gear before attempting to descend. Three of these well-wooded valleys they crossed—the last the famous meeting of the waters, Dartmeet—and each had its dangerously narrow bridge approached by sharp right-angled bends. The climb beyond Dartmeet took them up on to the open moor, wild, lonely, rolling in great sweeps of heather-clad country like the vast swelling waves of some mighty petrified ocean. Here and there these huge sweeps ran up into jagged rocky crests, as if the dancing foam of the caps had been arrested in midair and turned into grim shapes of black stone. Once before French had been on Dartmoor, when he had gone down to Princeton to see one of the unfortunates in the great prison. But he had not then been out on the open moor, and he felt impressed by the wide spaces and the desolation.
The sergeant’s attention being fully occupied with his wheel, he proved himself a silent companion, and, beyond pointing out the various objects of interest, made no attempt at conversation. Mostly in silence they drove some eight or nine miles, and then suddenly the man pulled up.
“This is the place, sir.”
It was the loneliest spot French had yet seen. On both sides stretched the moor, rolling away into the distance. To the north the ground rose gently; to the south it fell to the valley of a river before swelling up to a line of more distant highlands. Some three miles to the west lay the grey buildings of Princeton, the only human habitations visible save for a few isolated cottages dotted about at wide intervals. The road was unfenced and ran in a snaky line across the greens and browns of the heather and rough grass. Here and there spots of brighter green showed, and to these the sergeant pointed.
“Those are soft places,” he said. “Over there towards the south is Fox Tor Mire, a biggish swamp, and there are others in the same direction. On the north side are small patches, but nothing like the others.”