“There is an inn,” she said, “about a mile ahead, where we can obtain some vital information. He last wrote to me from there.”
Side by side we tramped along the dusty road. We both were silent, occupied with our own thoughts. Respecting the nature of my companion’s I could entertain little doubt, and my own turned upon the foolhardy nature of the undertaking upon which I was embarked. No other word passed between us then, until upon rounding a bend and passing a cluster of picturesque cottages, the yard of the Vinepole came into view.
“Do they know you by sight here?” I asked abruptly.
“No, of course not; we never made strategic mistakes of that kind. If we have tea here, no doubt we can learn all we require.”
I entered the little parlour of the inn, and suggested that tea should be served in the pretty garden which opened out of it upon the right.
The host, who himself laid the table, viewed the camera case critically.
“We get a lot of photographers down here,” he remarked tentatively.
“No doubt,” said my companion. “There is some very pretty scenery in the neighbourhood.”
The landlord rested his hands upon the table.
“There was a gentleman here on Wednesday last,” he said; “an old gentleman who had met with an accident, and was staying somewhere hereabouts for his health. But he’d got his camera with him, and it was wonderful the way he could use it, considering he hadn’t got the use of his right hand.”