Read Kindling for Free Online Page A

deserted roads in the dark night. From time to time he passed a lorry or an all-night coach roaring along at sixty in a blaze of headlights; there was nothing else on the road. At Newark he screwed round and peered through the screen behind his back; Warren appeared to be asleep again. He glanced at his watch; it was a quarter to two. Donaghue drove on.
    He passed through Tuxford and Retford. Near Bawtry he got out the sandwiches that Elsie had put up for him, and ate them as he drove. It was rotten about the picture he was taking her to; looked as though he’d have to send a telegram. He thought she’d understand. He ate her seed cake. He passed through Doncaster.
    “Another of these bloody towns,” he said. “Wonder how many more there are?”
    He was a young man of a good physique; he was growing tired, but he was not sleepy. He left Ferrybridge behind him, and Wetherby; in Boroughbridge it was pitch dark but there were one or two people in the streets, to his surprise. “They get up early in these parts,” he thought. It was about half-past four, and still raining a little.
    The limousine went flying up the long stretch of Roman road to Catterick, twenty miles away, past Middleton and Leeming Bar. At Scotch Corner he kept north and did not bear away, through Piercebridge and skirting Darlington. He was driving slower now, by map, through Witton-le-Wear and Dan’s Castle, where he began to see the shadow of the hedges in the dawn. It had stopped raining. He bore away towards the north-west, leaving Newcastle on the right by ten or fifteen miles; at Rowley it was light enough for him to drive without his lights. Presently he dropped down into Broomhaugh, and drove on a little up the valley of the Tyne.
    He screwed round stiffly and looked over his shoulder; Warren was awake. “This is the Newcastle to Carlisle road, sir,” he said.
    “Stop here,” said Warren. “Let me see your map.”
    The chauffeur drew up by the roadside and handed his map through the glass partition. It was about seven o’clock, quite light enough to see the countryside; a raw, windy morning with a wrack of low, scudding cloud down on the hills.
    Warren asked, “Where are we now?”
    “That’s Corbridge, sir, just over there. The river is the Tyne.”
    “I’ve got it,” said Warren. He studied the map for some minutes, then gave it back to Donaghue. “Go on towards Carlisle,” he said. “Stop when you get to that place Greenhead at the top of the pass.”
    Donaghue studied the map for a minute, and said, “Very good, sir.” He slipped round to his wheel again, and drove on.
    In half an hour he drew up by the side of the road. “This is the place you said, sir.”
    Warren laid aside his rugs, stretched a little, and got out of the car. The morning air was crisp and bracing to him; he had slept most of the night through, and he was feeling well. He looked around to see what sort of place this was. He saw black, heather-covered hills, a junction of two roads, a railway and a wayside station, one or two houses. The grey clouds went racing past only a few hundred feet above his head to wreathe about the hills; it was infinitely desolate.
    “This will do,” he said aloud. He turned back to the car.
    “You can leave me here,” he said to Donaghue. “I’m going to walk a bit. Go down into Carlisle and put up there. I shan’t want you any longer. Get some sleep, and then get along back to London.”
    “Very good, sir.” The chauffeur hesitated. “Can I get you anything before I go? Some breakfast, sir?”
    “That’s all right, thanks. Wait—leave me your map.”
    Donaghue offered a selection; Warren picked out a couple of the Ordnance Survey and stuffed them in the pocket of his ulster.
    “That will do,” he said. “Now, off you go. Tell Evans I’ll be back in London in about a week.”
    The chauffeur was uneasy. He would have liked to have stayed, to have seen his master left in better circumstances, but he had little