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He stood
up. The night was going to be bitterly cold, savagely, cruelly
cold. . . .
No. There was no thinking to be done here, no thinking at all. He
would go on along the track and presently he would strike a road and
so come to an inn. One can solve no problems when one is engaged in
a struggle with the elements. The thing to do now was to find that
track again. . . .
It took Benham two hours of stumbling and walking, with a little
fence climbing and some barbed wire thrown in, before he got down
into Shere to the shelter of a friendly little inn. And then he
negotiated a satisfying meal, with beef-steak as its central fact,
and stipulated for a fire in his bedroom.
The landlord was a pleasant-faced man; he attended to Benham himself
and displayed a fine sense of comfort. He could produce wine, a
half-bottle of Australian hock, Big Tree brand No. 8, a virile
wine, he thought of sardines to precede the meal, he provided a
substantial Welsh rarebit by way of a savoury, he did not mind in
the least that it was nearly ten o'clock.


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