Crossing a dilapidated wooden bridge the two men ascended a steep bank, on the top of which ran a narrow path, slippery with the exposed roots of the abundant trees. On the left the ground dropped steeply to the foaming stream; on the right was a "cut" or artificial waterway that supplied power to the neighbouring bleach-works, the smell of which, hanging about in the dank atmosphere, was the acknowledged drawback to the sylvan beauties of the Dingle Dell. "I haven't been this way before," remarked von Eitelwurmer untruthfully. He knew the district far better than his companion, and perhaps his knowledge was equal to that of the majority of the inhabitants of Tarleigh. It was his business to acquaint himself with the locality of every place in which his secret service work had led him. "Shouldn't care to walk along this path on a dark night, especially after one of your 'night-caps,' Barcroft." "Yes, it is a sort of 'twixt the devil and the deep sea business," rejoined Peter. "Steady!" he added as the spy stumbled over a protruding root. "Gun's not loaded, I hope?" "Rather not," replied von Eitelwurmer, pulling down the breech-block lever and holding up the weapon for his companion's inspection. "I'm used to a gun, remember." "You may be," retorted Barcroft grimly, "but these roots are not.... dash it all!" He sat down heavily, a patch of slippery ground having been responsible for the mild catastrophe. His cap, falling from his head, rolled down the bank and finally stopped on the top of a rounded boulder on either side of which the water swirled furiously. "The result of moralising," declared Peter. "And I've lost my cap. Bang goes five and sixpence if I don't recover it." Resting his gun against a tree, Barcroft descended with considerable agility till he gained the brink of the torrent. The two dogs, unused to the sight of their master on his hands and knees, capered behind him. To his disgust he found that the lost head-gear was just beyond the reach of his outstretched hand. He was not going to be done, he reflected stubbornly. By grasping the stem of a hazel that grew close to the stream he could lean out further without losing his balance. The stem seemed stout and supple enough, but unfortunately its looks belied its actual strength. It parted, and the next instant Peter was struggling in the foaming torrent. Flung against the hollowed water-course with a thud that almost deprived him of the little stock of breath left after his sudden immersion in the icy water, Barcroft was unable to make an effort to save himself from being swept over a miniature waterfall. Full six feet he fell; then, almost blinded by the spray that enveloped his head, he found himself struggling in a small but powerful eddy, while the rocks that almost surrounded the pool were too high and too slippery to afford a hand-grip.