It was not until he had sent back the car in which he had driven as far as the station, and was swinging on foot across Woolhanger Moor, that he realised fully why he had come, why he had schemed for these two days out of a life packed with multifarious tasks.

Then he laughed at himself, heartily yet a little self-consciously.

A fool's errand might yet be a pleasant one, even though his immediate surroundings seemed to mock the sound of his mirth.

Woolhanger Moor in November was a drear enough sight.

There were many patches of black mud and stagnant water, carpets of treacherous-looking green moss, bare clumps of bushes bent all one way by the northwest wind, masses of rock, gaunter and sterner now that their summer covering of creeping shrubs and bracken had lost their foliage.