"I beg your pardon, but can you tell me the shortest cut to Harmouth? I think I've lost my way."
She answered absently. "You are all right. Turn to the left, and you'll find the path along the cliff. It will bring you out on to Harmouth beach."
He followed the path she had pointed out. Still absently she looked after him, a dim figure going down into the fog, and it occurred to her that she had sent him on a dangerous way. There were rabbit wires and pitfalls on that path; places where the cliff was eaten away under its curling edge of turf, and for Mr. Rickman, who didn't know his ground, a single step might mean death.
She could not see him now. She called to him; "Mr. Rickman!" but there was no answer; only the sound of Mr. Rickman going down deeper. She called again, a little imperiously, and yet again. The last time her voice carried well, for there was the vibrating note of terror in it. He turned and saw her coming down the path towards him.
"I forgot," she said, still with the slight tremor of fear in her voice. It seemed to draw out and intensify its sweetness. "That path isn't safe in a fog like this. You had better go round by the road."
"Oh, thanks. You shouldn't have troubled. I should have got on all right." They were climbing up the moor together.
"I'm afraid you wouldn't. I wasn't thinking, or I would never have sent you that way."
"Why not? It was a very good way."
"Yes. But you were going down into the thick of the fog. You might easily have walked over the cliff—and broken your neck."
He laughed as if that was the most delightfully humorous idea.