Ten minutes later all three were out on the road again, travelling along the valley in the direction of Hawes Junction. The night was overcast and very dark, therefore Ronnie was compelled to switch on his head-lights, the road at that part being particularly dangerous.
The country they were now in was a wild and lonely one, with high peaks and wide, desolate moorlands; a sparsely populated district, far removed from the busy workaday world.
They had travelled as far as the old inn called the Moor Cock, where the road branches off to Kirkby Stephen, when Ronnie pulled up, and, turning, ran back again to within a mile of Hardraw. Then finding a convenient grass field, he ran the car in behind a low stone wall, where it was hidden from any passer-by. Then, each taking a flash-lamp and a revolver, they, after shutting off the lights, sought a path which at last they took, climbing up the steep hill-side.
A quarter of an hour’s walk brought them to a narrow, stony lane, which, after another quarter of an hour, led them to a long, low, stone-built cottage, surrounded by a clump of trees.
“That’s Dalton’s cottage,” remarked Ronnie. “It answers exactly to the description we have of it. Now, Collins, you get down on the left, so as to have a good point of view while we watch for anything stirring away on the right.”
It was then half-past ten o’clock. Though cold, the night was very still on those lonely moorlands. The house Ronnie and Beryl were approaching was in total darkness, a gloomy, remote place in which the mystery-man from Leeds, George Aylesworth, came for rest and quiet after the business turmoil of the great manufacturing town.
At last Ronald and his companion got up quite close to the house, and finding a spot whence they had a good view of the front door, they crouched beneath an ivy-clad wall, and there, without speaking, waited, knowing that Collins was on watch at the rear of the premises.
Their vigil was a long and weary one until at last the door opened. By the light within there was revealed a tall, lean man in overcoat and golf-cap. Beneath his left arm he carried something long and round, like a cylinder, while in his right hand he had a stout stick.
He came out, closed the door carefully behind him, and then, passing close to where the air-woman and her lover were crouched in concealment, struck away up a steep, narrow path which led up to the summit of the Black Hill. Happily for the watchers the wind had now become rather rough, hence they were able to follow the man Aylesworth—for Ronald recognised him by the description; keeping at a respectful distance, of course, but determinedly dogging his footsteps.
After walking for nearly half-a-mile up a steep ascent, and over a stony path, the man Aylesworth halted at a point which gave a view of the moor, with its fells and dales, for many miles around. From where Ronald halted he could see the man faintly silhouetted against the skyline.