If I was not paid I would
not do it. Go your way, young man, and say no more.” He turned rudely on
his heel and re-entered his house, slamming the door behind him. It was quite dark outside, with heavy black clouds drifting slowly
across the sky. Once clear of the farm inclosure and out on the moor I
should have been hopelessly lost if it had not been for my guide, who
walked in front of me along narrow sheep-tracks which were quite
invisible to me. Every now and then, without seeing anything, we heard
the clumsy scuffling of the creatures in the darkness. At first my guide
walked swiftly and carelessly, but gradually his pace slowed down, until
at last he was going very slowly and stealthily, like one who walks
light-footed amid imminent menace. This vague, inexplicable sense of
danger in the midst of the loneliness of that vast moor was more
daunting than any evident peril could be, and I had begun to press him
as to what it was that he feared, when suddenly he stopped and dragged
me down among some gorse bushes which lined the path. His tug at my coat
was so strenuous and imperative that I realized that the danger was a
pressing one, and in an instant I was squatting down beside him as still
as the bushes which shadowed us. It was so dark there that I could not
even see the lad beside me. It was a warm night, and a hot wind puffed in our faces. Suddenly in
this wind there came something homely and familiar—the smell of burning
tobacco. And then a face, illuminated by the glowing bowl of a pipe,
came floating towards us. The man was all in shadow, but just that one
dim halo of light with the face which filled it, brighter below and
shading away into darkness above, stood out against the universal
blackness. A thin, hungry face, thickly freckled with yellow over the
cheek bones, blue, watery eyes, an ill-nourished, light-coloured
moustache, a peaked yachting cap—that was all that I saw. He passed us,
looking vacantly in front of him, and we heard the steps dying away
along the path. “Who was it?” I asked, as we rose to our feet. “I don’t know.”

The fellow’s continual profession of ignorance made me angry. “Why should you hide yourself, then?” I asked, sharply. “Because Maister Maple told me. He said that I were to meet no one. If I
met any one I should get no pay.”

“You met that sailor on the road?”

“Yes, and I think he was one of them.”

“One of whom?”

“One of the folk that have come on the fells. They are watchin’ Greta
House, and Maister Maple is afeard of them. That’s why he wanted us to
keep clear of them, and that’s why I’ve been a-trying to dodge ’em.”

Here was something definite at last. Some body of men were threatening
my uncle. The sailor was one of them. The man with the peaked
cap—probably a sailor also—was another. I bethought me of Stepney
Highway and of the murderous assault made upon my uncle there. Things
were fitting themselves into a connected shape in my mind when a light
twinkled over the fell, and my guide informed me that it was Greta. The
place lay in a dip among the moors, so that one was very near it before
one saw it. A short walk brought us up to the door. I could see little of the building save that the lamp which shone
through a small latticed window showed me dimly that it was both long
and lofty. The low door under an overhanging lintel was loosely fitted,
and light was bursting out on each side of it. The inmates of this
lonely house appeared to be keenly on their guard, for they had heard
our footsteps, and we were challenged before we reached the door. “Who is there?” cried a deep-booming voice, and urgently, “Who is it, I
say?”

“It’s me, Maister Maple. I have brought the gentleman.”

There was a sharp click, and a small wooden shutter flew open in the
door. The gleam of a lantern shone upon us for a few seconds. Then the
shutter closed again; with a great rasping of locks and clattering of
bars, the door was opened, and I saw my uncle standing framed in that
vivid yellow square cut out of the darkness. He was a small, thick man, with a great rounded, bald head and one thin
border of gingery curls. It was a fine head, the head of a thinker, but
his large white face was heavy and commonplace, with a broad,
loose-lipped mouth and two hanging dewlaps on either side of it. His
eyes were small and restless, and his light-coloured lashes were
continually moving. My mother had said once that they reminded her of
the legs of a woodlouse, and I saw at the first glance what she meant. I
heard also that in Stepney he had learned the language of his customers,
and I blushed for our kinship as I listened to his villainous accent. “So, nephew,” said he, holding out his hand. “Come in, come in, man,
quick, and don’t leave the door open. Your mother said you were grown a
big lad, and, my word, she ’as a right to say so. ’Ere’s a ’alf-crown
for you, William, and you can go back again. Put the things down. ’Ere,
Enoch, take Mr. John’s things, and see that ’is supper is on the table.”

As my uncle, after fastening the door, turned to show me into the
sitting-room, I became aware of his most striking peculiarity. The
injuries which he had received some years ago had, as I have already
remarked, left one leg several inches shorter than the other. To atone
for this he wore one of those enormous wooden soles to his boots which
are prescribed by surgeons in such cases. He walked without a limp, but
his tread on the stone flooring made a curious clack-click, clack-click,
as the wood and the leather alternated. Whenever he moved it was to the
rhythm of this singular castanet. The great kitchen, with its huge fireplace and carved settle corners,
showed that this dwelling was an old-time farmhouse. On one side of the
room a line of boxes stood all corded and packed. The furniture was
scant and plain, but on a trestle-table in the centre some supper, cold
meat, bread, and a jug of beer was laid for me. An elderly manservant,
as manifest a Cockney as his master, waited upon me, while my uncle,
sitting in a corner, asked me many questions as to my mother and myself. When my meal was finished he ordered his man Enoch to unpack my gun. I
observed that two other guns, old rusted weapons, were leaning against
the wall beside the window. “It’s the window I’m afraid of,” said my uncle, in the deep, reverberant
voice which contrasted oddly with his plump little figure. “The door’s
safe against anything short of dynamite, but the window’s a terror. Hi! hi!” he yelled, “don’t walk across the light! You can duck when you pass
the lattice.”

“For fear of being seen?” I asked. “For fear of bein’ shot, my lad. That’s the trouble. Now, come an’ sit
beside me on the trestle ’ere, and I’ll tell you all about it, for I can
see that you are the right sort and can be trusted.”

His flattery was clumsy and halting, and it was evident that he was very
eager to conciliate me. I sat down beside him, and he drew a folded
paper from his pocket.