“Go ahead!” said Spargo.  “It’s the first time in my life I ever did anything of this sort, but we’re going on if it takes us all night.  I couldn’t sleep in any bed now that I’ve heard there’s somebody ahead of us.  Go first, old chap, and I’ll follow.”

Breton went steadily forward along the road.  That was easy work, but when he turned off and began to thread his way up the fell-side by what was obviously no more than a sheep-track, Spargo’s troubles began.  It seemed to him that he was walking as in a nightmare; all that he saw was magnified and heightened; the darkening sky above; the faint outlines of the towering hills; the gaunt spectres of fir and pine; the figure of Breton forging stolidly and surely ahead.  Now the ground was soft and spongy under his feet; now it was stony and rugged; more than once he caught an ankle in the wire-like heather and tripped, bruising his knees.  And in the end he resigned himself to keeping his eye on Breton, outlined against the sky, and following doggedly in his footsteps.

“Was there no other way than this?” he asked after a long interval of silence.  “Do you mean to say those two—­Elphick and Cardlestone—­would take this way?”

“There is another way—­down the valley, by Thwaite Bridge and Hardraw,” answered Breton, “but it’s miles and miles round.  This is a straight cut across country, and in daylight it’s a delightful walk.  But at night—­Gad!—­here’s the rain, Spargo!”

The rain came down as it does in that part of the world, with a suddenness that was as fierce as it was heavy.  The whole of the grey night was blotted out; Spargo was only conscious that he stood in a vast solitude and was being gradually drowned.  But Breton, whose sight was keener, and who had more knowledge of the situation dragged his companion into the shelter of a group of rocks.  He laughed a little as they huddled closely together.

“This is a different sort of thing to pursuing detective work in Fleet Street, Spargo,” he said.  “You would come on, you know.”

“I’m going on if we go through cataracts and floods,” answered Spargo.  “I might have been induced to stop at the ‘Moor Cock’ overnight if we hadn’t heard of that chap in front.  If he’s after those two he’s somebody who knows something.  What I can’t make out is—­who he can be.”

“Nor I,” said Breton.  “I can’t think of anybody who knows of this retreat.  But—­has it ever struck you, Spargo, that somebody beside yourself may have been investigating?”

“Possible,” replied Spargo.  “One never knows.  I only wish we’d been a few hours earlier.  For I wanted to have the first word with those two.”

The rain ceased as suddenly as it had come.  Just as suddenly the heavens cleared.  And going forward to the top of the ridge which they were then crossing, Breton pointed an arm to something shining far away below them.

“You see that?” he said.  “That’s a sheet of water lying between us and Cotterdale.  We leave that on our right hand, climb the fell beyond it, drop down into Cotterdale, cross two more ranges of fell, and come down into Fossdale under Lovely Seat.  There’s a good two hours and a half stiff pull yet, Spargo.  Think you can stick it?”