"Galled heel, worse luck," replied the vet. Even in the darkness Barcroft could discern his face twitching. "But it's nothing. I'll stick it."
"Look here," declared Barcroft authoritatively. There were times when the easy-going Peter could make himself obeyed. "It's all jolly rot your carrying on. You'll be lame in another mile. You must stick to the original programme, and stop at my place. What's happened at Barborough has happened, and your presence there to-night won't mend matters. Besides, there's the telephone."
Entwistle capitulated. In fact he was in great pain. The injury to his foot was more than he cared to admit. Not only was his heel badly chafed, but he had twisted his ankle on a loose stone.
"All right," he replied. "But suppose I can't get through on the 'phone?"
"You will," said Barcroft confidently. "Now: hang on to my arm. It's only a couple of hundred yards up the hill."
The last two hundred yards was a pilgrimage of pain. The approach was along a narrow lane paved with irregular slabs and enshrouded: with trees that threw the path into even greater gloom than the high road. The blackness was so intense that it appeared to have weight—to press upon their eyeballs like a tightly adjusted bandage. Away to the left came the gurgle of a mountain stream as it flowed swiftly through a deep cutting in the rocks.
"Here we are," said Peter at last.
"Yes," agreed Entwistle. "I know the place."
They were now clear of the trees. Looming mistily against the dark sky was a long, rambling, two-storeyed building surrounded by a roughly built stone wall. The latticed windows were heavily curtained. Not a light nor a sound came from the isolated dwelling.
"So Billy hasn't turned up yet," remarked Barcroft senior as he fumbled for his key. "Why, by Jove, the door's wide open!"