out an arm that seemed to embrace the whole wind-swept landscape. "Even the trees grow crooked here. It's a dead world. I sometimes think the only living things in it are the sheep and they're like Billy--witless."
"Why don't you leave?"
"I couldn't before--there was my mother to consider. Now it's too late. I'm squeezed dry. I wouldn't know where to go."
There was real pain in her voice and Chavasse felt genuinely sorry for her. "Perhaps your father could help. He may intend to now that your mother has gone."
"There's only one thing he wants to do for me--God knows he's tried that often enough." She laughed harshly. "My father died when I was three. He was a gypsy like my mother. She met Sam Crowther at Skipton Market ten years ago and married him within a week. The worst day's work she ever did in her life."
"You sound as if you hate him."
"And this place--all I ever wanted was to get away."
"Where would you like to go?"
"I've never really thought about it." She shrugged. "Some place where I could get a decent job, wear nice clothes, meet people--London, maybe."
From her vantage point it must have seemed as remote as the moon and just about as romantic. "Distance lends enchantment," he told her gently. "London can be the loneliest place on earth."
"I'd take my chances." They had reached one of the boundary walls and she leaned against it, arms folded under her breasts. "It must be marvelous to be able to go places--do exciting things--like Mr. Youngblood, for instance."
"Five years in gaol," Chavasse said. "Another fifteen to go if they catch him--perhaps more now. Nothing very romantic there."
"I mean before that," she said with a slight trace of impatience. "He was a smuggler, you know."
"Amongst other things."
She rushed on, looking animated for the first time since he had known her. "I read an article about him in one of the Sunday papers last year. They said he was a modern Robin Hood."
"I suppose that's one way of looking at it. Depends what the original was like."
"But it's true," she insisted. "They published an interview with an old lady who'd been treated with eviction because she couldn't pay her rent. Somebody told Mr. Youngblood. He gave her a hundred pounds and he'd never even met her before."
Chavasse could have told her that the incident had taken place just after a successful payroll snatch in Essex which was known to have netted Youngblood and his associates thirty-two thousand pounds and had put two armoured car guards in hospital, one with a fractured skull, but he knew when he was wasting his time.
He grinned crookedly. "He's certainly quite a man."
She nodded. "I hope he gets away, clear out of the country. I hope you both do."
"Do you get many people through here like us?" he said.
"About half a dozen this year."
"What about George Saxton and Ben Hoffa, Harry's friends? Did you see anything of them?"
Suddenly it was as if shutters had dropped squarely into place and when she glanced at him, the eyes were blank, the face devoid of all expression. "Yes, they were here."
"For how long?"
She hesitated and then said slowly, "I don't know. I didn't see them go."
Chavasse was aware of a sudden coldness in the pit of the stomach and his throat seemed to go dry. "Was that unusual?"
"Yes--yes, it was," she said hesitatingly. "The others were here for two or three days. I always saw them leave. My step-father took them in the car."
"Let me get this straight," Chavasse said. "You met Saxton and Hoffa down there on the road at night just like us and you brought them up to the farm?"
"That's right."
"Did you ever see either of them again after that?"
"Never."
They stood staring at each other dumbly in the rain, the ceaseless sighing of the wind the only sound.
"What happened to them, Molly?" Chavasse said.
"I don't know. Before God, I don't know," she cried.
"You mean you don't want to know, don't you?"
She shuddered violently as if at some secret unpleasant thought and he gripped
"Why don't you leave?"
"I couldn't before--there was my mother to consider. Now it's too late. I'm squeezed dry. I wouldn't know where to go."
There was real pain in her voice and Chavasse felt genuinely sorry for her. "Perhaps your father could help. He may intend to now that your mother has gone."
"There's only one thing he wants to do for me--God knows he's tried that often enough." She laughed harshly. "My father died when I was three. He was a gypsy like my mother. She met Sam Crowther at Skipton Market ten years ago and married him within a week. The worst day's work she ever did in her life."
"You sound as if you hate him."
"And this place--all I ever wanted was to get away."
"Where would you like to go?"
"I've never really thought about it." She shrugged. "Some place where I could get a decent job, wear nice clothes, meet people--London, maybe."
From her vantage point it must have seemed as remote as the moon and just about as romantic. "Distance lends enchantment," he told her gently. "London can be the loneliest place on earth."
"I'd take my chances." They had reached one of the boundary walls and she leaned against it, arms folded under her breasts. "It must be marvelous to be able to go places--do exciting things--like Mr. Youngblood, for instance."
"Five years in gaol," Chavasse said. "Another fifteen to go if they catch him--perhaps more now. Nothing very romantic there."
"I mean before that," she said with a slight trace of impatience. "He was a smuggler, you know."
"Amongst other things."
She rushed on, looking animated for the first time since he had known her. "I read an article about him in one of the Sunday papers last year. They said he was a modern Robin Hood."
"I suppose that's one way of looking at it. Depends what the original was like."
"But it's true," she insisted. "They published an interview with an old lady who'd been treated with eviction because she couldn't pay her rent. Somebody told Mr. Youngblood. He gave her a hundred pounds and he'd never even met her before."
Chavasse could have told her that the incident had taken place just after a successful payroll snatch in Essex which was known to have netted Youngblood and his associates thirty-two thousand pounds and had put two armoured car guards in hospital, one with a fractured skull, but he knew when he was wasting his time.
He grinned crookedly. "He's certainly quite a man."
She nodded. "I hope he gets away, clear out of the country. I hope you both do."
"Do you get many people through here like us?" he said.
"About half a dozen this year."
"What about George Saxton and Ben Hoffa, Harry's friends? Did you see anything of them?"
Suddenly it was as if shutters had dropped squarely into place and when she glanced at him, the eyes were blank, the face devoid of all expression. "Yes, they were here."
"For how long?"
She hesitated and then said slowly, "I don't know. I didn't see them go."
Chavasse was aware of a sudden coldness in the pit of the stomach and his throat seemed to go dry. "Was that unusual?"
"Yes--yes, it was," she said hesitatingly. "The others were here for two or three days. I always saw them leave. My step-father took them in the car."
"Let me get this straight," Chavasse said. "You met Saxton and Hoffa down there on the road at night just like us and you brought them up to the farm?"
"That's right."
"Did you ever see either of them again after that?"
"Never."
They stood staring at each other dumbly in the rain, the ceaseless sighing of the wind the only sound.
"What happened to them, Molly?" Chavasse said.
"I don't know. Before God, I don't know," she cried.
"You mean you don't want to know, don't you?"
She shuddered violently as if at some secret unpleasant thought and he gripped
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