Human beings have been variously compared by imaginative persons to pawns on a chessboard; storm-tossed boats on the sea of life; pilgrims on a weary way, and other things of no resemblance whatever to the foregoing.
Molly, marching stoically along the lonely road under the impression that she was on her way to Wellington when she was really turned toward Exmoor, might have fitted into any of those comparisons rather more literally than was intended.
She was certainly a storm-tossed pilgrim if not a boat; the way was decidedly weary and as pawn, pilgrim or ship, whichever you will, she was about to come in contact with another of life’s pawns, pilgrims or ships, to the decided advantage of the one and amazement of the other.
This new pawn, pilgrim or ship was now advancing down the road, and Molly, mindful of the fact that she was not getting anywhere when she felt sure that by this time she should at least have reached the lake, was not sorry to see a human being.
The stranger looked decidedly like the pilgrim of romance. He wore an old black felt hat with a broad slouching brim and a long Spanish cape reaching below his knees; his staff was a rosewood cane with a silver knob.
He was about to pass Molly without even glancing in her direction when she stopped him.
“Would you mind telling me if it’s very far from Wellington?” she asked. “I’m afraid I’m lost.”
“Do you imagine you are going to Wellington?” he demanded, looking up.
Instantly Molly recognized him. He was the man she had seen the night before in Professor Green’s study.
“I did think so,” she answered meekly.