“You may well ask,” said Tarlyon.
No laggard was that sergeant of police. A grizzled man, with a reticent face. I sat behind and heard Tarlyon explain. The sergeant said nothing, listening intently, until the end.
“Where did you say the house was, sir?” he asked then.
“I’ve just been telling you, man! In a little clearing in the wood.”
“Very good, sir,” said the sergeant of police.
Silently we sped into Carmion Wood.
“You see, sir,” said the sergeant, “it’s a powerful long time since I’ve been here. Folk roundabout mislike the wood.”
“Don’t feel very attached to it myself,” grunted Tarlyon. “Ah, here we are!”
But it was not going to be as easy as that. For when we left the car, at the identical spot where, we were certain, the little old woman had stopped us, we somehow lost our way. We wandered about for some time, up little twisting lanes, down tangled untidy lanes, up no lanes at all: we ploughed through the growth and lush of the wood, like angry flies beating about a crypt to which the sun filtered in tortured patches of light. We perspired enormously—and Tarlyon lost his temper. He had had no luncheon, you understand, and it was now past five; and so he was fluent in the forbidden language. But the sergeant of police was a tough and silent man, he neither sweated nor spoke.
“Where did you say the house was, sir?” asked the sergeant at last: and very amiably, I thought, considering....