“Going to try it, sir?” said another of the group.
Van Heldre nodded; and he was on his way to a roughly-formed flight of granite steps, which led up to the ruins of the old castle which had once defended the mouth of the harbour, when another mackintosh-clothed figure came up.
“Ah, Mr Leslie,” said Van Heldre, looking at the new-comer searchingly.
“Good morning,” was the reply, “or I should say bad morning. There’ll be some mischief after this.”
Van Heldre nodded, for conversation was painful, and passed on.
“Going up yonder?” shouted Leslie.
There was another nod, and under the circumstances, not pausing to ask permission, Leslie followed the old merchant, climbing the rough stone steps, and holding on tightly by the rail.
“Best look out, master,” shouted one of the group. “Soon as you get atop roosh acrost and kneel down behind the old parry-putt.”
It was a difficult climb and full of risk, for as they went higher they were more exposed, till as they reached the rough top which formed a platform, the wind seemed to rush at them as interlopers which it strove to sweep off and out to sea.
Van Heldre stood, glass in hand, holding on by a block of granite, his mackintosh tightly pressed to his figure in front, and filling out behind till it had a balloon-like aspect that seemed grotesque.