"Why, that's Squire Fentolin's house!"

Gerald nodded.

"That is where we are going. You follow this road almost straight
ahead."

The chauffeur slipped in the clutch.

"Oh, I know the way now, sir, right enough!" he exclaimed. "There's
Salthouse marsh to cross, though. I don't know about that."

"We shall manage that all right," Gerald declared. "We've more
light now, too."

They both looked around. During the last few minutes the late
morning seemed to have forced its way through the clouds. They had
a dim, phantasmagoric view of the stricken country: a watery plain,
with here and there great patches of fields, submerged to the
hedges, and houses standing out amidst the waste of waters like
toy dwellings. There were whole plantations of uprooted trees.
Close to the road, on their left, was a roofless house, and a
family of children crying underneath a tarpaulin shelter. As they
crept on, the wind came to them with a brackish flavour, salt with
the sea. The chauffeur was gazing ahead doubtfully.

"I don't like the look of the marsh," he grumbled. "Can't see the
road at all. However, here goes."

"Another half-hour," Gerald assured him encouragingly, "and we shall