As the road began to climb toward a bleak moorland he became less voluble, more desirous to get Anson to speak. Philip thought that the doctor listened to him with a curious eagerness. Probably Sir Philip and Lady Morland impressed him as an odd couple; he would be anxious to learn what sort of relative this was who had traveled from London to see them. Philip was in small humor for conversation. He looked forward to an exceedingly unpleasant interview, when his lips would utter consoling words to which he must strive to impart a genuine and heartfelt ring; that would need an effort, to say the least. The road wound its way through pines and heather, but ever upward, until the trees yielded to an unbroken range of open mountain, and the farms that nestled in nooks of the hillside disappeared wholly. Glimpses of the sea were caught where a precipitous valley tore a cleft in the land. On a lofty brow in front Philip saw a solitary and half-dismantled building. "Is that the Grange House?" he inquired. "Yes." "Why on earth did two old people, one of them an invalid, select such a lonely residence?" "That has been puzzling me for days." "How long have they been here?" "I cannot say. I was only called in four days ago." They passed a policeman patrolling his country beat. The doctor gave him an affable smile. The man saluted promptly, but looked after them with a puzzled air. He continued to watch them at intervals until they reached the Grange House. Anson noticed that the track, it was a gate-guarded bridle path now, mounted steadily to the very threshold. "The place stands on the edge of a cliff," he said. "Yes. It was built by some recluse. The rock falls sheer, indeed slopes inwards to some extent, for three hundred feet." "Some day, I suppose, it will fall into the sea?" "Probably, but not in our time. Here we are. Just allow me to hitch the reins to the gatepost." He jumped lightly out of the dogcart. "Are there no servants?" "Only an old woman and her daughter. They are busy at this hour." Philip understood that a meal might be in preparation. He hoped not; personally, he could not eat there. Dr. Williams pressed the latch of an old-fashioned door. He whispered: "Be as quiet as possible. He may be asleep; if he is, it will not be for long, poor fellow." Indeed the doctor himself betrayed some slight agitation now. He perspired somewhat, and his hand shook. Anson followed him into a somber apartment, crudely furnished, half dining room, half kitchen. Though the light of a June evening was clear enough outside, the interior of the house was gloomy in the extreme. There were some dark curtains shrouding a doorway. "Lady Morland is in there," murmured the doctor, brokenly. "Will you go to her?" Philip obeyed in silence. He passed through the curtains. It was so dark that he imagined he must be in a passage with a door at the other end.