"Over the moors towards Windyhill," replied Barcroft, signing to the two dogs to come to heel. "We'll cut through the Dingle Dell. It's a bit rough going, but we'll save a mile or so."
The Dingle Dell was a narrow valley between two rugged cliffs of Millstone Grit. Through the defile rushed a foaming mountain stream fed by the recent rains and now possessing a tremendous volume of water. Centuries of erosion had worn the rocks that confine the torrent to its course to a remarkable smoothness, while the water as it leapt from one level to another had undermined the banks almost throughout the entire length of the Dingle Dell.
Tarleigh Moors had been experiencing a variety of weather during the last fortnight. Following the heavy rain came a hard frost that in turn gave place to the first of the winter snow. Although most of the white mantle had disappeared, patches of snow still remained in the sheltered sides of the valleys, while in the Dingle Dell the trees still retained their seared and yellow leaves.
Crossing a dilapidated wooden bridge the two men ascended a steep bank, on the top of which ran a narrow path, slippery with the exposed roots of the abundant trees. On the left the ground dropped steeply to the foaming stream; on the right was a "cut" or artificial waterway that supplied power to the neighbouring bleach-works, the smell of which, hanging about in the dank atmosphere, was the acknowledged drawback to the sylvan beauties of the Dingle Dell.
"I haven't been this way before," remarked von Eitelwurmer untruthfully. He knew the district far better than his companion, and perhaps his knowledge was equal to that of the majority of the inhabitants of Tarleigh. It was his business to acquaint himself with the locality of every place in which his secret service work had led him. "Shouldn't care to walk along this path on a dark night, especially after one of your 'night-caps,' Barcroft."
"Yes, it is a sort of 'twixt the devil and the deep sea business," rejoined Peter. "Steady!" he added as the spy stumbled over a protruding root. "Gun's not loaded, I hope?"
"Rather not," replied von Eitelwurmer, pulling down the breech-block lever and holding up the weapon for his companion's inspection. "I'm used to a gun, remember."
"You may be," retorted Barcroft grimly, "but these roots are not.... dash it all!"
He sat down heavily, a patch of slippery ground having been responsible for the mild catastrophe. His cap, falling from his head, rolled down the bank and finally stopped on the top of a rounded boulder on either side of which the water swirled furiously.
"The result of moralising," declared Peter. "And I've lost my cap. Bang goes five and sixpence if I don't recover it."