George Elgood’s haste to reach the end of the moor gave wings to his feet, so that Margot had much ado to keep pace. Contrary to expectation, the fog did not lessen as they advanced, but closed in upon them thicker and thicker, so that the ground beneath their feet became invisible, and progress was broken by sundry trips and stumbles over projecting mounds of heather. The air seemed to reek with moisture, and a deadly feeling of oppression, almost of suffocation, affected the lungs, as the curling wreath of mist closed overhead.
Half an hour earlier Margot had felt that any sort of adventure (if experienced in George Elgood’s company) must of necessity be enjoyable, but during that swift silent retreat she was conscious of a dawning of something perilously like fear. Her breath came in quickened pants, she kept her eyes fixed in a straining eagerness on the tall figure looming darkly ahead. If she once lost sight of him, what would become of her? It made her shudder to think of being left alone upon that shrouded moor!
Every now and then as he walked, the Editor gave voice to a loud “coo-ee,” in hope that the echoes might reach the ears of his brother and Ronald, who should by now be approaching in the same direction; but no reply floated back to his anxious ears.
“Perhaps they have gone round by the road,” he suggested tentatively. “If they were some time in following, they may have seen the fog, and come to the conclusion that discretion was the better part of valour.”
“Ron wouldn’t go another way if he thought I was in danger! He promised father to take care of me. I know he will come.”
“Then we are bound to meet; unless—” George Elgood stopped short hurriedly. It was not for him to open his companion’s eyes to the fact that the direction which they were taking had become a matter of speculation, as one after another the familiar landmarks faded from view.
The two brothers might pass by within a few yards, or their paths might diverge by miles, but in either case they would be equally invisible. The only hope was to go on sending out the familiar cry, which would at once prove their identity. “Not that we should be any better off with them than without!” he told himself dolefully.
Margot did not ask for a completion of the unfinished sentence, perhaps because she guessed only too truly its import. A few steps farther on her foot came in contact with a stone hidden beneath a clump of furze; she stumbled, tried in vain to recover herself, and fell forward on her knees. The shock and the severe pricking which ensued forced a cry of dismay, and the Editor turned back hurriedly, and uttered a startled inquiry.
“Miss Vane, where are you?”
“I’m here!” replied a doleful voice, and a dark form stirred at his feet. “I—fell! On a horrid bush! My hands are full of prickles.”