She turned, unstartled, but with an air of imperfect recognition. He
raised his hat; the hat with the green ribbon on it.
"I beg your pardon, but can you tell me the shortest cut to Harmouth?
I think I've lost my way."
She answered absently. "You are all right. Turn to the left, and
you'll find the path along the cliff. It will bring you out on to
Harmouth beach."
He followed the path she had pointed out. Still absently she looked
after him, a dim figure going down into the fog, and it occurred to
her that she had sent him on a dangerous way. There were rabbit wires
and pitfalls on that path; places where the cliff was eaten away under
its curling edge of turf, and for Mr. Rickman, who didn't know his
ground, a single step might mean death.
She could not see him now. She called to him; "Mr. Rickman!" but there
was no answer; only the sound of Mr. Rickman going down deeper. She
called again, a little imperiously, and yet again. The last time her
voice carried well, for there was the vibrating note of terror in it.
He turned and saw her coming down the path towards him.
"I forgot," she said, still with the slight tremor of fear in her
voice. It seemed to draw out and intensify its sweetness. "That path
isn't safe in a fog like this. You had better go round by the road."
"Oh, thanks. You shouldn't have troubled. I should have got on all
right." They were climbing up the moor together.
"I'm afraid you wouldn't.
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