"Mr. Armathwaite?" inquired Percy dully, quite ignoring the other man's courteous smile at the implied introduction. "Yes, the new tenant of our house." "First I've heard of any new tenant." "Nothing surprising in that," and Marguerite's voice grew almost snappy. "Get up, anyhow, unless you wish to have a mattress and a quilt brought here." The young man rose. He was not affecting a weariness he did not feel. Being a weedy youth, not built for feats of athleticism, the long walk in a hot sun over difficult country had taxed his physique unduly. "How d'ye do?" he said, raising lack-luster eyes to Armathwaite's. "I'm fit as a fiddle," said Armathwaite cheerfully, grabbing the portmanteau. "So will you be to-morrow. In fact, you'll be surprised how quickly your muscles will lose their stiffness when you sight the journey's end." "I've been doing that every five minutes during the past two hours," was the doleful answer. Armathwaite nodded sympathetically. Percy Whittaker struck him as a flabby creature, whose conversational style was unintentionally funny. Like Falstaff, if not humorous in himself, he was "the cause of humor in others." Truth to tell, Armathwaite gave him slight heed. He was mainly interested in Marguerite Ogilvey's attitude, and she was markedly irritated either by her friend's lackadaisical pose or because he had appeared at all. The girl softened, however, when she saw how Percy limped. She linked an arm in his, and the trio moved off. "How often have I told you to wear strong boots with good, stout soles?" she said. "I'm a good walker myself, but I don't tackle these moor roads in house slippers. Isn't that so, Mr. Armathwaite? One ought to be properly shod for trudging about the country." "You don't seem to understand that I hate trudging anywhere; the last thing I dreamed of when I left Chester this morning was that I should tramp half across Yorkshire," protested Whittaker. "Even now, I don't see why you came." "Couldn't help myself--Edie's orders." "But why?" "Well--er--" "If you mean that she knew I had gone away intending to wear a boy's clothes you needn't spare my feelings. Mr. Armathwaite knows all about that." "Does he? In that case, I'm spared any explanation. You see, Edie was naturally anxious. As for me, I hardly slept a wink last night through worrying about you. And then, a letter came for you this morning from your father. I recognized his handwriting, and it's marked 'Immediate.' Since there was no news from you, we were at a loss to decide on the best course to adopt. Now, I appeal to you, Mr. Armathwaite. Suppose--" "I agree with you entirely," broke in Armathwaite. "I think Miss Ogilvey ought to be profoundly grateful for your self-sacrifice." "There, Meg, do you hear that? Self-sacrifice! I'm literally skinned in your service, and you only pitch into me. Now, I've done most of the talking. It's your turn. When are you coming home?" "To-morrow, perhaps."