..Strangers in the grass..
Then, by a field that shone like a thought of daylight amid the darkness of a moor, he saw a figure lying in the grass. It was a blot upon the landscape, a mere huddled patch of dirty rags, yet with a certain horrid picturesqueness too; and his mind - though his French was of the school room order - at once picked out the French equivalents as against the English.
Here was a clue tossed up by the part of him that did not reason. But it seems he missed it. And the next minute the tramp-like man rose to a sitting posture and asked the time of the evening. In French he asked it. And Earzo, answering without a second's hesitation, gave it, also in French, ''dix-huit heures trente'' - half past six. The instinctive guess was accurate.
A glance at his watch when he looked a moment later proved it. He heard the man say, with the covert insolence of tramps, ''T'ank you.''
For Earzo had not shown his watch - another intuition subconciously obeyed.
He quickened his pace along that lonely road, a curious jumble of thoughts and feelings surging through him. He had somehow known the question would come, and come in French. Yet it flustered and dismayed him. Another thing had also flustered and dismayed him. He had expected it in the same queer fashion: it was right. For when the ragged brown thing rose to ask the question, a part of it remained lying on the grass - another brown dirty thing. There were two tramps. And he saw both faces clearly. Behind the untidy beards, and below the old hats, he caught the look of unpleasant, clever faces a second he looked straight into those eyes, so that he could not fail to know them. And he understood, quite horridly, that both faces were too sleek, refined, and cunning for those of ordinary tramps. The men were not really tramps at all. They were disguised.