“Good idea!  We’ll call in at the ‘Moor Cock.’  Now then, while we’re on this firm road, step it out lively.”

The “Moor Cock” was almost deserted at that hour:  there was scarcely a soul in it when the two travellers turned in to its dimly-lighted parlour.  The landlord, bringing the desired refreshment, looked hard at Breton.

“Come our way again then, sir?” he remarked with a sudden grin of recognition.

“Ah, you remember me?” said Breton.

“I call in mind when you came here with the two old gents last year,” replied the landlord.  “I hear they’re here again—­Tom Summers was coming across that way this morning, and said he’d seen ’em at the little cottage.  Going to join ’em, I reckon, sir?”

Breton kicked Spargo under the table.

“Yes, we’re going to have a day or two with them,” he answered.  “Just to get a breath of your moorland air.”

“Well, you’ll have a roughish walk over there tonight, gentlemen,” said the landlord.  “There’s going to be a storm.  And it’s a stiffish way to make out at this time o’night.”

“Oh, we’ll manage,” said Breton, nonchalantly.  “I know the way, and we’re not afraid of a wet skin.”

The landlord laughed, and sitting down on his long settle folded his arms and scratched his elbows.

“There was a gentleman—­London gentleman by his tongue—­came in here this afternoon, and asked the way to Fossdale,” he observed.  “He’ll be there long since—­he’d have daylight for his walk.  Happen he’s one of your party?—­he asked where the old gentlemen’s little cottage was.”

Again Spargo felt his shin kicked and made no sign.  “One of their friends, perhaps,” answered Breton.  “What was he like?”

The landlord ruminated.  He was not good at description and was conscious of the fact.

“Well, a darkish, serious-faced gentleman,” he said.  “Stranger hereabouts, at all events.  Wore a grey suit—­something like your friend’s there.  Yes—­he took some bread and cheese with him when he heard what a long way it was.”

“Wise man,” remarked Breton.  He hastily finished his own bread and cheese, and drank off the rest of his pint of ale.  “Come on,” he said, “let’s be stepping.”

Outside, in the almost tangible darkness, Breton clutched Spargo’s arm.  “Who’s the man?” he said.  “Can you think, Spargo?”

“Can’t” answered Spargo.  “I was trying to, while that chap was talking.  But—­it’s somebody that’s got in before us.  Not Rathbury, anyhow—­he’s not serious-faced.  Heavens, Breton, however are you going to find your way in this darkness?”

“You’ll see presently.  We follow the road a little.  Then we turn up the fell side there.  On the top, if the night clears a bit, we ought to see Great Shunnor Fell and Lovely Seat—­they’re both well over two thousand feet, and they stand up well.  We want to make for a point clear between them.  But I warn you, Spargo, it’s stiff going!”