"Can you see where we're going, Greenwood?" he asked. "Frankly, I can't. It's the worst fog I've ever struck."
"I haven't been able to see anything of the road for the last twenty minutes," confessed Greenwood senior. "I think I'll change places with young Tressidar. He's used to peering through mist, I should imagine."
The car stopped and the change was effected, but Ronald found that he had hopelessly lost his bearings. Everything visible was grotesquely distorted by the fog, and magnified out of all proportion.
"Hold hard!" he exclaimed after another mile or so had been covered at almost crawling pace. "There's something right ahead."
The "something" proved to be a sign-post at the fork of two roads. None of the party had noticed it on the outward journey. Slowly the car was brought alongside. It was the only way to read the directions, if such existed. Unfortunately they didn't. The finger-post, neglected and weather-beaten, was devoid of wording.
"There's a map in that case," observed the doctor. "Would you mind getting it out? We'll soon see where we are."
The map was worse than useless. It was a delusion and a snare, for nowhere within ten miles of where the car was supposed to be was a fork road shown.
"What's wrong?" enquired the A.P. from the rear of the car.
"Out of our bearings. Suppose you don't happen to have brought a compass?" said the sub. "Unless we are going in exactly the opposite direction to the right one, there's not a fork road anywhere about, according to this map."
"Don't forget I'm due at Ferncoombe tonight," sung out Mr. Greenwood jocularly. "Now, Cardyke, get a move on."