Had Walker remained in the dog-cart, and shouted for the keys of the Grange, Mrs. Jackson would have contrived, by hook or by crook, to delay the examination of the house until Betty had smuggled "Miss Meg" into safety, in which case Armathwaite would never have met her. And, now, if the girl had quickened her pace--in eager delight, perhaps, breaking into a run--had she, either by voice or manner, shown that the unforeseen presence of Percy Whittaker on the moor was not only an extraordinary event in itself, but one which she hailed with unmitigated joy, Armathwaite would assuredly have stifled certain vague whisperings of imagination which, ere long, might exercise a disastrous influence on the theory he held in common with a well-known British general--namely, that empire-builders should not be married. But she stood stock still, and, without turning her head so that Armathwaite might see her face, said quietly: "Well, it is the unexpected that happens, and the last person I dreamed of seeing to-day was Master Percy." "Are you sure it _is_ Whittaker?" inquired Armathwaite. He put the question merely for the sake of saying something banal and commonplace. Not for an instant did he doubt the accuracy of Marguerite's clear brown eyes; but, oddly enough, the behavior of the dejected figure by the roadside lent reasonable cause for the implied doubt. Never did tired wayfarer look more weary or disconsolate. After that first glance, and a listless gesture, the stranger showed no other sign of recognition. To all seeming, he had reached the limit of his resources, physical and mental. "Sure?" echoed the girl. "Of course, I'm sure. There's only one Percy, and it's there now, beastly fagged after a long walk on a hot day in thin patent-leather shoes. Doesn't it remind you of a plucked weed drooping in the sunshine?" She moved on, walking rapidly now, but a slight undertone of annoyance had crept into her voice, tinging her humor with sarcasm. Armathwaite said nothing. The sun-laved landscape glowed again after a few seconds of cold brilliance--a natural phenomenon all the more remarkable inasmuch as no cloud flecked the sky. Thus, in silence, they neared the limp individuality huddled dejectedly on a strip of turf by the roadside. To Armathwaite's carefully suppressed amusement, he saw that the wanderer was indeed wearing thin, patent-leather shoes. "Percy!" cried the girl. Percy looked up again. He drew the fore-finger of his right hand around the back of his neck between collar and skin, as though his head required adjustment in this new position. "Hallo, Meg!" he said, and the greeting was not only languid but bored. "What in the world are you doing here?" she went on, halting in front of him. "I dunno," he said. "I'm beastly fagged, I can tell you--" Armathwaite smiled, but Marguerite laughed outright.