"What time does the post leave here, Meg?" he inquired. "I want to send Edie a line. She'll have a bad fit of the jumps if she hears from neither of us to-morrow." CHAPTER VIII WHEREIN PERCY WHITTAKER PROVES HIMSELF A MAN OF ACTION The rather bizarre question startled the girl out of her melancholy thoughts. She looked at Whittaker as though she had completely forgotten his presence. "The post," she repeated. "There is no post out of Elmdale this evening. Miggles passed through the village hours ago." "Miggles?" "He's the postman. We either see him ourselves or leave letters at Thompson's, the grocer's, before four o'clock." "Then neither letter nor telegram can be dispatched to-night?" "Yes. If you care to pay mileage to Bellerby, and the message is handed in before eight, Thompson will send a boy with a telegram." Whittaker glanced at his watch. The hour was half-past six. "How far is Bellerby?" he said. "Tell me in terms of the clock, not in miles, which, as a method of reckoning in Yorkshire, conveys a sense of infinity." "A boy can bicycle there in half an hour." "Then, footsore as I am, I shall hie me to Thompson's." "Why not write your telegram here, and Betty will take it." "No, thanks. I'll see to it myself. Then, if it doesn't reach Edie to-night, I can place a hand on my heart and vow I did all man could do, and failed." "You are not forgetting that I have written to her?" "No. Don't you see? A letter from you complicates matters even more. If she hears from Meg, and not a word is said about Percy, she'll wonder what has become of little me. I suppose Thompson's shop is not 'a nice bit' removed from the village?" "It is opposite the Fox and Hounds Inn. You can walk there in two minutes." Armathwaite, who had risen, and was staring through the window during this brief colloquy, was struck by the quietly pertinacious note in Whittaker's voice. Moreover, he was listening carefully, since there was some faint trace of an accent which had a familiar sound in his ears. He waited, until the younger man had gone out and was walking gingerly down the garden path; progress downhill must have been a torture to sore toes, yet Whittaker was strangely determined to send that unnecessary telegram in person--unnecessary, that is, in view of the fact that a message dispatched next morning would have served the same purpose. Why? Armathwaite found that life bristled with interrogatives just then. Turning to look at Marguerite, he said: "Your friend doesn't like me." She did not attempt to fence with him. Somehow, when her eyes met his, a new strength leaped in her heart. "Percy flatters himself on the ease with which he follows the line of least resistance, but in reality he is a somewhat shallow and transparent person," she answered. "There is a transparency of shallowness which occasionally hides a certain depth of mud."