We hurried gratefully across the station forecourt and into the doctor's covered Morris and were soon bowling swiftly along the marsh road, the doctor driving with skill and obvious enjoyment. As we sped along the narrow road through the flat, monotonous countryside the dusk was creeping on apace and I could imagine the effect on old Silas Grimstone of seeing the spectral blue figure which pursued him amid this forbidding landscape. Now and again the doctor pointed out the features of the countryside, such as they were. Indeed, I felt they were but poor things, being a ruined windmill, an old round tower and the crumbling remains of a wooden breakwater, to mention only the most notable.
Even Pons' normally sanguine nature seemed affected by the dreariness of this area of mud flats and marsh with its cloudy scatterings of seabirds and it was with something like relief that we saw the gleam of light ahead and shortly after drove down the main street of a small village.
"Here you are, Mr. Pons," said Dr. Strangeways, drawing up in front of a cheerful-looking inn of medium size. With its brick walls and gray slate roof it was of no great charm but situated as we were it seemed most welcome with the light shining from its windows and a mellow glow coming from the entrance porch.
We got down and Pons handed me my baggage while he sought his own. Strangeways jerked his thumb as he indicated a building almost opposite.
"There is my office, gentlemen. I am to be found there most evenings from six to eight if you need me. You must dine with me one night. My house is in a side street, not three hundred yards from where we are standing."
"That is most kind of you, doctor," I said, shaking hands. Strangeways smiled deep in his beard. He pointed to the village street, which wound away in front of us.
"Grimstone Manor is about a mile from here, south along the marsh road yonder. The road is straight all the way and you cannot miss the causeway. I would run you there myself but I have to prepare for surgery and visit patients beforehand."
"We are in your debt already," said Solar Pons. "The walk will do us good, eh, Parker. And if we step it out we should be at the manor before darkness falls. It is just a quarter past three."
We watched as the doctor drove off down the street with a salute on the horn. Then we turned into The Harrow. The landlord, a welcoming, jovial man of about forty, was expecting us and after we had registered, showed us to two plain but clean and comfortable rooms on the first floor.
"We serve dinner from eight o'clock onward, gentlemen. Breakfast is from seven A.M. until nine."
"That will do admirably," Pons told him. "We expect to be out and about the marsh a great deal."
The landlord, whose name was Plackett, nodded.
"It is a quiet time of the year, sir, but we will do our best to make you comfortable. There is good walking hereabouts, if you don't mind the wind off the sea."
I had just time to wash my hands, tidy myself and unpack my few necessaries, before Pons was knocking at my door and shortly afterward we were walking out of Stavely, the wind in our faces, bound for Grimstone Manor.
5
It was, as old Grimstone had indicated, a lonely road and with darkness falling apace, a somber one. Within a very few minutes the small hamlet of not more than five streets had dropped away and to all intents and appearances we were alone in the illimitable landscape. Pons strode along in silence, his heavy coat drawn snugly about him, his pipe shoveling streamers of blue smoke behind him.
The road ran straight as an arrow across the marsh, ice glinting like steel in the irrigation ditches at either side. The sky was dark and lowering, though a little light from the dying sun stained the distant bar of the sea and turned the wetlands into scattered pools of blood. My thoughts were as melancholy as the lonely cries of the sea-birds that fluttered dark-etched against the sunset and here and there the bones of some wrecked craft or a dark patch of mud stood out as a black silhouette.
The wind was gusting now and our footsteps echoed grittily behind us. There was not one human figure in all that space; not one vehicle in the long stretch of road that reached to the horizon in either direction. Pons abruptly broke the silence, stabbing with his pipe stem to emphasize his points.
"Ideal is it not, Parker?"
I was startled.
"I do not know what you mean, Pons."
"Why, for purposes of elimination, of course. The landscape limits the phantom's activities."
He chuckled wryly. For some reason his attitude irritated me. I threw up my hands to emphasize the bleakness of the marsh all around us.
"I see nothing humorous in all this, Pons."
"You are quite right, Parker. It is a deadly serious affair whose purpose as yet eludes me. Yet the landscape is a vital factor. If this burning specter which haunts old Silas Grimstone is a figure of flesh and blood, as I believe him to be, he is playing a deep and dangerous game. But the atmosphere, as I indicated on our journey down, plays a big part. While it may favor the menace which hangs over our client, it also acts in our favor."
I glanced sideways at the clear-minted, feral features of my companion.
"How do you mean, Pons?"
"The matter is self-evident, Parker. Let us take the points in this creature's credit account. The marsh is vast and impenetrable to the stranger. Ergo, he knows it well. He can appear and disappear without trace. He materialized only at dusk so far; darkness and fog are also helpful for his purposes."
"I follow you so far, Pons."
Solar Pons chuckled again.
"But the marsh can also act against him. True, it masks his appearance and his movements, for any traces of his passage would be eliminated by the ooze. But the bog is just as dangerous for him as for any other man. One false step and he is trapped as surely as any sheep or cow which wanders in. Mud may also leave traces of his passage. And his appearance is limited to the marsh. For if he ventures onto the high road or any other inhabited place, then we have him."
I looked at my companion in surprise.
"You almost sound as though you are pleased, Pons."
"Do I not, Parker?"
Solar Pons rubbed his thin hands together as though to restore the circulation and glanced about the dying landscape with keen eyes.
"So we are looking for someone who has an intimate knowledge of the marshes; is strong and active. There is also one other important corollary — a secure place to hide."
He broke off and sniffed. With his nostrils flaring and his deep-set eyes probing the dusk he looked like nothing so much as a purebred hound hot on the scent.
"Dr. Strangeways might well fit that bill, Pons. He seems to know the marsh intimately."
Solar Pons looked at me sardonically.
"You have a point there, Parker. I had not overlooked the possibility. He seemed almost too friendly on the train. Ah! Here we are at our destination, if I am not mistaken."
He pointed through the dusk to the left of the road, where stood the stout wooden fence and the causeway of which our client had spoken. A faint vapor was writhing from the ground and the solid earth dyke stretched away to a sort of island in the mist, at some considerable distance, where I could faintly discern the vague shadows of trees and the outline of buildings.
"I fancied I could smell the chimney smoke, Parker. But before we cross I will just have a look at the terrain here."
To my alarm Pons jumped agilely down the bank and was working up and down the margin of the reeds. He had his flashlight out and now and again stooped toward the ground, examining the grasses and the muddy pools minutely. I, stood on the road and kept my silence, knowing better than to interrupt him. He cast about him and broke off a heavy reed stem with a brittle snap.