"I've told you, I was going to Carnoustie."
"Going from Carnoustie, you mean. You'll never be finding it in this part of the country."
"I daresay. Since it became dark I've been hobbling round about just anywhere. I don't know where I am; I've lost myself completely." He was silent, as if he found something in her words which made him think. Then she took up the rôle of questioner: "Where are you going?"
"To a man that's dying."
"Are you a doctor?"
"It's my trade."
"Then you'll be able to look at my ankle. I hope it's nothing serious, but it seems to be getting worse instead of better."
"I'll look at your ankle, never fear. I'll find you an easier patient than the one I'm bound for."
Little more was said on either side. The doctor seemed to be by nature a taciturn man, or perhaps he was too preoccupied for speech. Isabel was feeling too miserable to talk. She was cold and wet; her ankle was occasioning her no little pain. She could hardly have been less inclined for conversation, and she, also, had at times a gift of silence. During the twenty or thirty minutes the drive continued probably not half-a-dozen words were exchanged.
At last the doctor brought his mare to a standstill.