moved swiftly; his chance of reaching the tavern ahead of the deluge
was exceedingly slim. His long, powerful legs had carried him twenty
or thirty paces before he came to a sudden halt.

What of this lone woman who traversed the highway? Obviously she too
was a stranger on the road, and a glance over his shoulder supported a
first impression: she was carrying a stout travelling bag. His first
glimpse of her had been extremely casual,--indeed he had paid no
attention to her at all, so eager was he to read the directions and be
on his way.

She was standing quite still in front of the sign-post, peering up the
road toward Frogg's Corner,--confronted by a steep climb that led into
black and sinister timberlands above the narrow strip of pasture
bordering the pike.

The fierce wind pinned her skirts to her slender body as she leaned
against the gale, gripping her hat tightly with one hand and straining
under the weight of the bag in the other. The ends of a veil whipped
furiously about her head, and, even in the gathering darkness, he
could see a strand or two of hair keeping them company.

He hesitated. Evidently her way was up the steep, winding road and
into the dark forest, a far from appealing prospect. Not a sign of
habitation was visible along the black ridge of the wood; no lighted
window peeped down from the shadows, no smoke curled up from unseen
kitchen stoves. Gallantry ordered him to proffer his aid or, at the
least, advice to the woman, be she young or old, native or stranger.

Retracing his steps, he called out to her above the gale: