He paused and looked round at his listeners. He dropped his voice low, and all five of the children felt little shivers up their backs.

“One night somebody in the village saw twenty or more gypsy caravans slinking through the village at dead of night,” said Ben. “Up on the moor they went in the thick mist. Mebbe they followed the railway; nobody knows. And next morning, up to the quarry went the Bartles as usual, swallowed up in the mist.”

He paused again. “And they never came back,” he said. “No, not one of them. Never heard of again!”

“But what happened?” said George.

“Search-parties were sent out when the mist cleared,” said old Ben. “But never one of the Bartles did they find, alive or dead. Never a one! And they didn’t find any gypsy caravans either. They’d all come creeping back the next night, and passed through the village like shadows. I reckon them gypsies set upon the Bartles in the mist that day, fought them and defeated them, and took them and threw them over the cliffs into the roaring sea!”

“How horrible!” said Anne, feeling sick.

“Don’t worrit yourself!” said the blacksmith. “It all happened a mort of time ago, and there wasn’t many that mourned them Bartles, I can tell you. Funny thing was, their weakly little sister, Agnes, she lived to be a hale old woman of ninety-six, and only died a few years ago! And to think them strong fierce brothers of hers went all together like that!”

“It’s a most interesting story, Ben,” said Julian. “So Misty Moor became Mystery Moor then, did it? And nobody ever really found out what happened, so the mystery was never solved. Didn’t anyone work the railway after that, or get the sand?”

“No, not a soul,” said Ben. “We was all scared, you see, and young Agnes, she said the railway and the trucks and injin could rot, for all she cared. I never dared to go near them after that. It was a long time before anyone but the gypsies set foot on Misty Moor again. Now it’s all forgotten, the tale of the Bartles, but them gypsies still remember, I’ve no doubt! They’ve got long memories, they have.”

“Do you know why they come to Mystery Moor every so often?” asked Dick.

“No. They come and they go,” said Ben. “They’ve their own queer ways. They don’t belong anywhere, them folk. What they do on the moor is their own business, and I wouldn’t want to poke my nose into it. I’d remember them old Bartles, and keep away!”

A voice came from inside the smithy, where Jim, the blacksmith’s grandson, had been shoeing the horses. “Grandad! You stop jabbering away there, and let the children come and talk to me! I’ve shod nearly all the horses.”

Ben laughed. “You go along,” he said to the children. “I know you like to be in there and see the sparks fly, and the shoes made. I’ve wasted your time, I have, telling you long-ago things. You go along into the smithy. And just you remember two things - watch out for that mist, and keep away from the gypsies on the moor!”