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 stuthed 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 stuthed 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. 'Thif is the place you said, sir.'
Warren kid 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. 'Pm 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 option in the matter. He said, 'Goodbye, sir,' and let in his clutch, and went running down the hill towards Carlisle.
He was a young and vigorous man, not unduly tired by having driven a good car all night. He was three hundred miles from London, where a girl was waiting for him; as he ate his breakfast an idea was forming in his mind. He could make a quick run down the North road in the limousine, average forty-five, easy. Forty-five into three hundred miles, that made six and two-third hours. Allow a bit for going into London — call it seven hours. He looked at his watch; be on the road again by half-past eight. That meant home by half-past three, an hour late, but still with most of her half day to go. And it wasn't as if he was really tired.
A girl would like a chap to put himself about like that for her.
He paid his bill, and started on the London road.
In the middle of the morning, running at a high speed three miles short of Retford, a small car turned out suddenly across his path. At eighty miles an hour you cannot swerve and dodge; the limousine hit the near-front wheel to off-front wheel and threw the small car to the hedge. Itself it was deflected to the right side of the road to hit a five-ton lorry coming from the town. When finally they got the wreckage off him, Donaghue was dead.
Elsie sat waiting for him all that afternoon. I believe she is waiting for him still.
CHAPTER THREE
Warren was hungry. He watched the car depart, then he walked down to the station to enquire where he could get some food. A solitary porter cleaning lamps directed him to a cottage half a mile away that in the season sold meals to summer visitors. Warren set out up the road.
As he went, his hand strayed to his unshaven chin. He had no razor, and to get one in this district would be practically impossible, he must give up that. He would
'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 stuthed 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 stuthed 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. 'Thif is the place you said, sir.'
Warren kid 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. 'Pm 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 option in the matter. He said, 'Goodbye, sir,' and let in his clutch, and went running down the hill towards Carlisle.
He was a young and vigorous man, not unduly tired by having driven a good car all night. He was three hundred miles from London, where a girl was waiting for him; as he ate his breakfast an idea was forming in his mind. He could make a quick run down the North road in the limousine, average forty-five, easy. Forty-five into three hundred miles, that made six and two-third hours. Allow a bit for going into London — call it seven hours. He looked at his watch; be on the road again by half-past eight. That meant home by half-past three, an hour late, but still with most of her half day to go. And it wasn't as if he was really tired.
A girl would like a chap to put himself about like that for her.
He paid his bill, and started on the London road.
In the middle of the morning, running at a high speed three miles short of Retford, a small car turned out suddenly across his path. At eighty miles an hour you cannot swerve and dodge; the limousine hit the near-front wheel to off-front wheel and threw the small car to the hedge. Itself it was deflected to the right side of the road to hit a five-ton lorry coming from the town. When finally they got the wreckage off him, Donaghue was dead.
Elsie sat waiting for him all that afternoon. I believe she is waiting for him still.
CHAPTER THREE
Warren was hungry. He watched the car depart, then he walked down to the station to enquire where he could get some food. A solitary porter cleaning lamps directed him to a cottage half a mile away that in the season sold meals to summer visitors. Warren set out up the road.
As he went, his hand strayed to his unshaven chin. He had no razor, and to get one in this district would be practically impossible, he must give up that. He would
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