It was still beautifully fine, but already the golden sunshine
was waning and there were little wisps and curls of mist stealing
low along the fields. Desmond turned to the left, on leaving the
Mill House, as he was bid and saw the road running like a khaki
ribbon before him into the misty distance.
Swinging his stick, he strode on rapidly. The road was neglected,
broken and flinty and very soft. After he had gone about a mile
it narrowed to pursue its way between two broad ditches lined
with pollard willows and brimful of brown peaty water. By this
time he judged, from his recollection of the map, that he must be
on Morstead Fen. An interminable waste of sodden, emerald green
fields, intersected by ditches, stretched away on either hand.
He had walked for half an hour when he made out in the distance a
clump of trees standing apart and seemingly in the middle of the
fields. Then in the foreground he descried a gate. A figure was
standing by it.
As he approached the gate he saw it was a small boy. On remarking
the stranger, the urchin opened the gate and without looking to
right or left led off down the road towards the clump of trees:
Desmond followed at his leisure.
As they neared the trees, the low red roof of a house detached
itself.
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