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."
