He went on ahead of them, scrambling up the round artificial hillock, the burial mound of some prehistoric chieftain, hopping through the trees and looking more gnome-like than ever.
“What the hell are we up to now?” muttered Guffy under his breath to Eager-Wright as they brought up the rear of the little procession. “Going to see a poppy under the influence of Neptune?”
“Going to be seen by a poppy under the influence of drink,” said the other softly. “Or there may be fairies at the bottom of the garden, of course.”
Guffy snorted and they ploughed on until, upon reaching their host’s side on the top of the mound, they found themselves looking down upon a wide-sweeping valley. Pontisbright lay like a cluster of dolls’ houses in the southern extremity, and, among the uncultivated fields
