"Yes," was the reply. "A matter of a couple o' mile t'other side o' Wilverley Post."
After a lengthy and complex explanation of how to reach Wilverley Post, Dacres found himself almost as much enlightened as before.
"Can I get a motor or a cab?" he asked.
"Naw, zur; not onless you'm ordered 'em. There be a bus, only it doänt meet this train."
Dacres was not a man to be daunted by difficulties. Emerging from the station he swung along the road, breathing in the pure moorland air, determined by hook or by crook to reach his destination with the least possible delay.
The road was quite deserted. Not even a motorist passed, otherwise he would have boldly asked the favour of a lift. Overhead a deep buzzing caused him to look upwards. Two aviators, making towards Bournemouth, glided swiftly through the gathering gloom. In this part of the country, Dacres reflected, there were more men in the air than on the highway.
Presently he reached a signpost at the junction of four cross roads. By this time there was just sufficient light for him to decipher the directions. Lyndhurst—he did not want to go there; Ringwood—equally undesirable, as were the other places mentioned.
"I suppose this is Wilverley Post," he thought. "Here I must bring up and wait till some one comes along. That ought to be fairly soon. What a deserted-looking spot, though. However," he added optimistically, "it might be a jolly sight worse. For instance, it might be raining hard and blowing half a gale. Ha! Here's a cart coming along."
In response to a hail the driver pulled up, but he was quite at a loss to give the desired information. He had lived at Ringwood all his life, and had never heard of Cranbury House.
Ten minutes later a large motor-car came swinging along. The chauffeur obligingly stopped, but was likewise unable to state the locality of Colonel Dacres' property.