“Do you know the way?” asked Spargo.
“I’ve been the way. In the daytime I could go straight ahead. I remember all the landmarks. Even in the darkness I believe I can find my way. But it’s rough walking.”
“We’ll go straight there,” said Spargo. “Every minute’s precious. But—can we get a mouthful of bread and cheese and a glass of ale first?”
“Good idea! We’ll call in at the ‘Moor Cock.’ Now then, while we’re on this firm road, step it out lively.”
The “Moor Cock” was almost deserted at that hour: there was scarcely a soul in it when the two travellers turned in to its dimly-lighted parlour. The landlord, bringing the desired refreshment, looked hard at Breton.
“Come our way again then, sir?” he remarked with a sudden grin of recognition.
“Ah, you remember me?” said Breton.
“I call in mind when you came here with the two old gents last year,” replied the landlord. “I hear they’re here again—Tom Summers was coming across that way this morning, and said he’d seen ’em at the little cottage. Going to join ’em, I reckon, sir?”
Breton kicked Spargo under the table.
“Yes, we’re going to have a day or two with them,” he answered. “Just to get a breath of your moorland air.”