'Fair number,' I told him.
'In the mining districts?'
'Some.'
'Well then — what do you say to O'Donnel? That's a good Irish name, indeed it is. And it's very suitable for a big man; look you. From now on you're Jim O'Donnel. Okay?'
'Sure,' I said. 'What's in a name?'
He laughed sardonically. 'A hell of a lot sometimes, you know.' He was silent for a moment. I knew he was looking up at me, and I knew what he was thinking. 'Did you have to ask for me by my real name?' he said at length.
'How was I to know you had changed it?' I said.
He grunted. 'She didn't know Jones wasn't my real name.
Damn it, man, you might have thought of that. And showing her the letter. It's pretty mad, she was. She's nothing particular in the way of looks and she knows it.'
After that we walked in silence, mile after weary mile, through the driving rain. We went on through Hea Moor and Madron and then up the long hill flanked by cedar woods and rhododendrons to the moors. We met no one. Only two cars passed us and each time my companion drew me out of the line of the headlights. He was taking no chances of being seen. On the long hill out of Madron his pace became slower and slower, so that I had to keep on waiting for him. His breathing was heavy and his limp more pronounced. Out on the moors at the top we came into the wind and the rain slanted across our faces from the south west. It was pitch dark, and silent save for the steady swish of the rain.