“We’ve got a field to cross,” he explained, holding a gate open for me.
We staggered along for a little. Then he stopped and I bumped up against him.
“Over there,” he said.
I looked, and saw a patch of extra darkness, between the darkness of some tree-stems.
“There’s no light,” I said. “Is he expecting you? I hope he won’t be annoyed with me for coming.”
“Oh, he won’t be annoyed,” said Lathom, shortly. “He’s gone to bed, I expect. Early bird. Up with the lark and down with the sun and all that. It doesn’t matter. We can forage round for ourselves.”
A few more minutes, and we stood at the door of the shack. You know what it’s like—indeed, all England knows by now—a low, two-roomed cottage, ugly, built of stone, with a slate roof. Only one story—what in Scotland they call a but and ben. The windows were unshuttered, but not a spark of light showed through them—no candle, not so much as the embers of a fire.
Lathom gave an ejaculation.
“He must have gone to sleep,” he muttered. I was fumbling for the handle of the door, but he pushed me aside, and I heard the latch click open. He paused, staring into the dark interior.
“I wonder if he’s gone wandering off and got lost somewhere,” he said, hesitating on the threshold.
“Why not go in and see?” I countered.