The driver sat motionless on the box, watching the caperings of the tipsy tin-miners through the half-open door: a melancholy death'shead of a man, with a preternaturally long white face, and a figure shrouded in a dark cloak, looking as though he might be Death itself, waiting for the carousers to drop dead of apoplexy before carrying them off in his funereal equipage.

In reply to Barrant's question he informed him that the vehicle was destined for Penzance, and immediately the detective entered the dark interior he drove off with disconcerting suddenness, as though he had been waiting for him only, and was determined to make sure of him before he had time to escape.
The shaggy horse lumbered forward at an unwilling trot, like an animal disillusioned with life.

Soon they cleared the churchtown and entered the darkness of the moors.

A long and tiring day disposed Barrant to slumber.
He had begun to nod sleepily when the wagonette stopped with a jerk which shook him into wakefulness.

He was able to make out that they had reached the highest elevation of the moors--the cross-roads from where Inspector Dawfield had shown him Flint House in the distance that afternoon.