To the right and up the mountain road Frogg's Corner lay four miles
and a half away; Pitcairn was six miles back over the road which the
man had travelled. Two miles and a half down the turnpike was Spanish
Falls, a railway station, and four miles above the cross-roads where
the man and woman stood peering through the darkness at the laconic
sign-post reposed the village of Saint Elizabeth. Hart's Tavern was on
the road to Saint Elizabeth, and the man, with barely a glance at his
fellow-traveller, started briskly off in that direction.
Lightning was flashing fitfully beyond the barrier heights and faraway
thunder came to his ears. He knew that these wild mountain storms
moved swiftly; his chance of reaching the tavern ahead of the deluge
was exceedingly slim. His long, powerful legs had carried him twenty
or thirty paces before he came to a sudden halt.
What of this lone woman who traversed the highway? Obviously she too
was a stranger on the road, and a glance over his shoulder supported a
first impression: she was carrying a stout travelling bag. His first
glimpse of her had been extremely casual,--indeed he had paid no
attention to her at all, so eager was he to read the directions and be
on his way.
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