“The storm,” said John, “will be upon us in a moment.”
Rosamund had found him by the gate of the White Cottage. Half a dozen words had put the happening before him. Two minutes had sufficed to inform Mrs. Trimwell that his return might be delayed. Three minutes saw him again beside Rosamund.
With no earthly clue to guide them, with north, south, east, west, to choose from, it was, so it seemed, a pure toss-up which route they should pursue.
After a moment’s consultation they set out for the willows and the river, deciding to take their way down stream. It was no less unlikely than any other road, though it certainly cannot be termed more likely.
Conversation, you may well believe, was non-existent; eyes and ears alert, they pursued their way. Hope at first held some sway in their hearts, but an hour’s fruitless walking brought it to a low ebb.
“I think we had better turn back,” said Rosamund. “He would never have come further than this.”
It was then that John made the aforementioned remark.
“The storm will be upon us in a moment.”
As he spoke came the first low growl of thunder; a moment later a louder, deeper growl. A gust of wind swept the river, bending the rushes, breaking the still surface of the water into a thousand moving fragments. Then two or three big raindrops fell.
John glanced round quickly. Some three hundred yards lower down the river was a rough shed, a thing built of logs, and roofed with corrugated iron. Possibly it was used as a shelter for the men who cut the willows, which abounded in the sedgey meadows.