Then he laid bare his project. Stephen Garth was dead and buried. Let him remain so. Mrs. Ogilvey herself would be the first to approve of any fair means which would save her husband from the probing and prying of the police. There was always the probability that he was innocent of any crime. Even if, from the common-sense point of view, they must assume that he knew of the ghastly secret which the house could reveal sooner or later, it did not necessarily follow that such cognizance was a guilty one. Thus did Armathwaite juggle with words, until his hearer was convinced that he could secure her a respite from the tribulations of the morrow, at least, though the graver problem would remain to vex the future. They were yet talking earnestly when the iron hasp of the gate clicked in its socket. "Dr. Scaife!" cried Marguerite, rising hurriedly. Then she bethought herself. "I suppose it doesn't really matter now who sees me," she added, "and I should so much like to meet him. He is one of our oldest friends in Yorkshire." "Meet him, by all means; but don't forget your new role. In fact, it would be well if you rehearsed it at once. The doctor will be a valuable factor in the undoing of Walker." The bell rang. Armathwaite himself went to the door. A slightly-built, elderly man, wearing a bowler hat and an overcoat, was standing there. In the lane beyond the gate gleamed the lamps of a dog-cart, and a groom was holding the horse's head. "I'm Doctor Scaife," announced the newcomer. "I'm told you have had an accident of some sort here!" "Yes," said Armathwaite. "Come in, doctor! You've probably heard my name--Armathwaite. I've just rented this place for the summer, and a young friend of mine, who arrived unexpectedly to-day, had the ill-luck to slip on the stairs and sprain his ankle. I've done what I could by way of first-aid. I hope you received my message correctly?" "About the india-rubber bandage, do you mean? Yes, I've brought one. Lucky your man caught me. I was just starting for another village; but I can make the call on my way home. Where is the patient?" At that minute the doctor set eyes on Marguerite, who had come to the door of the dining-room. Her face was in shadow, because the lamp on the table was directly behind her. "Well, Uncle Ferdie, you dear old thing--don't you know me?" she cried. Dr. Scaife was not a man of demonstrative habit; but, for once in his life, he literally gasped with surprise. "Meg!" he stammered. "My own little Meg!" He grasped her hands in both of his. A dozen questions were hovering on his lips, yet all he could find to say was: "Is Mrs. Garth here, too?" "No; mother comes to-morrow, or next day at latest." "You intend remaining, I hope?" "Well, our movements are rather erratic, but we shall have several opportunities of meeting you before we go." Betty appeared, carrying a lamp, which she set on a bracket at the corner of the stairs. Scaife, still holding Meg's hand, drew her to the light.