Thus rallied, the doctor took the plunge. He restarted the car and followed the right-hand road, arguing with himself that it must lead somewhere, and that the fog wouldn't be so thick when clear of the moors.
An hour passed. The car had covered certainly not more than four miles. The doctor was showing signs of the severe strain it imposed upon his vision and mental powers, but tactfully refusing Tressidar's offer to drive, he stuck gamely to the steering-wheel.
It was now getting dark—and the doctor never drove at night unless it could not be avoided, and then only on roads with which he was well acquainted. With the decline of day the fog lifted slightly, and showed promise of dispersing.
Having stopped to light the lamps—merely a matter of complying with the law, since the obscured glasses gave hardly any illumination, certainly not enough to enable the occupants of the car to avoid an obstruction in time—the tedious journey was resumed, but at a slightly increased speed.
"Now I think I know where we are," declared the doctor; but the next moment he found out his mistake, for the car was on the point of charging a flock of sheep.
A turn of the steering-wheel did the trick. Missing the foremost sheep by inches, the car mounted a slight bank by the roadside and commenced to slide down the steeply shelving slope of a deep valley.
The doctor shoved on the brakes. Although the wheels were locked and the momentum retarded, the car continued its involuntary glide. Then Tressidar had a vague impression that he was flying through the air, and the next thing he knew was that he was sitting in a most aggressive gorse-bush.