"This is some of Paul's work," said Ardmore; "and if I am not very much mistaken we are on my land now and headed straight enough for the wagon-road that leads south beyond the red bungalow. These roads in here were planned to give variety, but I never before appreciated how complicated they are."
The path stretched away through the heavy forest, and they climbed to a ridge that commanded a wide region that lay bathed in silver moonlight, so softly luminous that it seemed of the stuff of shadows made light. Westward, a mile distant, lay Ardsley, only a little below the level of the ridge and touched with a faint purple as of spring twilight.
Ardmore sat his saddle, quietly contemplating the great house that struck him almost for the first time as imposing. He felt, too, a little heartache that he did not quite understand. He was not sure whether it was the effect of the moon, or whether he was tired, or what it was, though he thought perhaps the moon had something to do with it. His own house, of which he was sincerely fond, seemed mistily hung between heaven and earth, in the moonlight, a thing not wholly of this world; and in his depression of spirit he reflected for a moment on his own aimless, friendless life; he knew then that he was lonely and that there was a great void in his mind and heart and soul and he knew also that Jerry Dangerfield and not the moon was the cause of his melancholy.
"We'd better be moving," suggested Cooke.
"It's too bad to leave that picture," remarked Collins, sighing. "Had I the lyre of Gray I should compose an Ode on a Distant Prospect of Ardsley Castle, which would ultimately reach the school readers and bring me fame more enduring than brass."
"Did you say brass?" ironically scoffed Cooke.
Whereupon the Palladium's late representative laughed softly and muttered to himself,
"Proud pile, by mighty Ardmore's hand upreared!"
"Cut it out," commanded Cooke, "or I'll drop you into the ravine. Look below there!"