Armathwaite's face, as he strode through Elmdale, was hardly that of a man who had found there the quiet and solitude he had stipulated for when in treaty with Walker & Son. Its stern and harassed aspect was seen and commented on by a score of people. Though most of the inhabitants were busy in the fields, there were watchers in plenty peering from each farm and cottage. Already the village held in common the scanty stock of information possessed by the Jacksons concerning the Grange's new tenant, because mother and daughter were far too shrewd to provoke discussion by withholding the facts stated by the house agent. They knew that every urchin who could toddle had peeped through gate and hedges that morning; they were more alive than Armathwaite himself to the risk Miss Meg ran of being seen if she went outside the house, front or back, for ten seconds. The best way to disarm gossip was to answer as best they might the four questions put by every inquirer: Who is he? Where does he come from? Is he married? How long will he stop? Singularly enough, in a land of variable weather, Elmdale at this time was bathed in brilliant sunshine from morn till eve. The ripening crops, the green uplands, the moor, with its gorse just fading and its heather showing the first faint flush of purple, were steeped in the "great peacefulness of light" so dear to Ruskin. If one searched the earth it would be hard to find a nook where sorrow and evil were less likely to dree their weird; yet, Armathwaite expected to meet those grim sisters stalking through the ancient house when he saw an empty dog-cart and an open door; he seldom erred in such forecasts, and his divination was not at fault now. As he entered the hall, he heard the girl's voice, clear and crisp and scornful. "How dare you say such things to me! How dare you! My father is alive and well. If he were here now----" James Walker chuckled. "Tell that to the Marines," he began. The remainder of the sentence died on his lips when Armathwaite's tall form appeared in the doorway. "You here, Mr. Walker?" said the Anglo-Indian calmly. Then, noting Marguerite Ogilvey's white face and distraught eyes, he assumed a mystified air, and cried: "Hullo, Meg, what's gone wrong?" She flew to him instantly, clasping his arm, and the confident touch of her fingers thrilled him to the core. "Oh, Bob, I'm so glad you've come back," she almost sobbed. "That--that nasty little man has been telling such horrid fibs. He says--he says--Oh, Bob, won't you send him away?"