XVIII
A FUTILE PURSUIT
Hetty’s sleigh was sliding, a dim moving shadow, round a bend in the rise when Breckenridge touched his comrade, who stood gazing silently across the prairie.
“It’s abominably cold, Larry,” he said, with a shiver. “Hadn’t we better get on?”
Grant said nothing as he took his place on the driving-seat, and the team had plodded slowly along the trail for at least five minutes before he spoke.
“You heard what Miss Torrance told me?” he said.
“Yes,” Breckenridge said. “I notice, however, we are still heading for the bridge. Can’t you cross the ice, Larry?”
“If I wanted to I fancy I could.”
“Then why don’t you?”
Grant laughed. “Well,” he said, “there’s only one trail through the bluff, and it’s not the kind I’m fond of driving over in the dark.”