Hugh Ritson was still visibly perturbed.
"There's more in this matter than either of us knows," he said.
Mr. Bonnithorne watched him for a moment in silence.
"I think you draw a painful inference—what is it?" he asked.
"What?" repeated Hugh, and added, absently, "who can tell?"
Up and down the room he walked restlessly, his eyes bent on the floor, his face drawn down into lines. At length he stood and picked up the hat he had thrown on the couch.
"Bonnithorne," he said, "you and I thought we saw into the heart of a mystery. Heaven pity us for blind moles! I fear we saw nothing."
"Why—what—how so—when—" Mr. Bonnithorne stammered, and then stopped short.
Hugh had walked out of the room and out of the house. He leaped into the saddle and rode away.
The wind had risen yet higher; it blew an icy blast from behind him as he cantered home. Through the hazy atmosphere a cloud of dun, vaporish red could be seen trailing over the dim fells. It poised above the ball crown of the Eel Crags like a huge supernatural bird with outstretched wings.