It was five o'clock when the travellers reached Bradmoor, the nearest station to Bowderstyke. It was ten miles to the valley, but the road was excellent, and Towton's motor-car awaited them. In ten minutes the baggage was packed away, and Vernon with his host was safely ensconced in the back part of the machine, which was covered with a hood. Towton asked Vernon if he would care to drive, but as the offer was refused and the Colonel himself did not feel in a sporting humour, the conduct of the journey was left to the smart chauffeur. He appeared to be well acquainted with the country, and as the road was somewhat lonely, the motor travelled towards Bowderstyke at a great rate of speed. The motion was exhilarating, and the view on either side of the roadway extremely picturesque, so Vernon enjoyed himself greatly in the fresh air, after the close atmosphere and the monotony of the train. With the wind blowing in his face and the smooth, easy gliding motion, he felt like a flying bird, or at all events as though mounted on one. The country was wild and barren, consisting mainly of interminable stretches of moorland, mounting up on either side of the road to considerable heights. Occasionally there was a dip covered with green grass and trees, already beginning to shed their leaves, but for the most part the sombre moors, darkening in the failing light, spread solemnly to right and left. It was rarely that a house or a village was passed, and only every now and then could Vernon catch a glimpse of cattle or human beings. "This country would get on my nerves," he said to his companion. "It is like the weird landscape described by Browning in his Childe Roland poem. Those telegraph poles are the sole signs of civilisation." "Oh, we'll come to a more cheery aspect shortly," said Towton smiling; "for my part, I love the gloom and the loneliness of our moors. Many a time in the garish Indian days, with a burning sun in the hateful blue sky, have I longed for dear old Yorkshire." "Everyone to his taste," said Vernon with a shrug. "I prefer something much more cheerful." "You are a cockney at heart, Vernon." "I daresay. London is good enough for me." Towards the end of the ten mile stretch from the station signs of civilisation became more frequent. Here and there was a village with cultivated fields around it. Cattle were pastured in enclosed paddocks, and men and women with laughing children trudged along the high road, looking after the motor with great curiosity, for the machine was yet a novelty in that lonely district. Twice the road ran directly through a village, and Vernon had an opportunity of seeing the solid grey stone houses, which were suited to the Calvinistic looks of the country. And the people themselves appeared to be what the Scotch call "dour."