The Lost Clue by O.F. Walton

WHEN Captain Fortescue set out at half-past seven for Fernbank a fearful gale was blowing. The trees rocked and strained overhead, and so violent was the wind, as it came sweeping through the narrow gorge down which he had come that afternoon, that he could hardly fight his way against it, as he attempted to retrace his steps as far as the bridge.

It was a terribly cold night, the ground was as hard as iron, and the bridge was so slippery that he stumbled as he crossed it.