Through the gate of a high wall set about a low-built house the car containing Penelope Noelson and Larry Hughes passed. A ground mist as high as a man’s waist was rising; but as far as the girl could see there was nothing within view of the place but a desolate and dreary tract of marshland. She shivered as though the spot chilled her.
Larry helped her to descend. “This is my country home,” he said, “a place I picked up cheap because it is eight miles from a railway station, and five from anything resembling a road. Tricky business, too, for a stranger to find a way about these marshes.”
She did not miss the hint. “You think you are going to hold me as a sort of prisoner here? Don’t forget, Mr. Hughes, that I have friends.”