In response to Armathwaite, he promised to bring a nurse in the morning, as he was confident that the sprain would keep Whittaker bed-ridden at least a couple of weeks. Then he took his leave. "I'll go and sit with Percy a little while now," said Marguerite. "Poor fellow! What a shame he should have met with this mishap after his gallant walk to-day. Perhaps that is why he fell. His muscles may have relaxed owing to over-exertion. Will you ever forgive me, Bob, for all the worry I have caused you?" "No," he said. "I want you to remind me of it so often that we shall lose count of the number of times. But, before you go upstairs, let me warn you that Dr. Scaife gave our young friend about twenty grains of bromide in one gulp. He may be dozing. If he is, don't wake him." In a couple of minutes she was back in the library, where Armathwaite was seated with a book and a pipe. "He's asleep," she whispered. "I'm glad to hear it. Now, come and sit down. Are you too tired to answer questions?" "Try me." "Concerning your change of name--can you explain more definitely how it came about?" "I told you. It was on account of a legacy." "But from whom? Who was the Ogilvey who left the money? A relative on your father's side, or your mother's?" "Dad's, I understood." "Did you ever hear of anyone named Faulkner?" "Yes. Some people of that name lived here years ago. We were distantly related. In fact, that is how the property came into dad's possession. But he never really went into details. One day he said he had made a will, leaving me everything, subject to a life interest for mother, and that when he was dead a lawyer would tell me all that I ought to know. Then I cried at the horrid thought that he would have to die at all, and he laughed at me, and that was the last I ever heard of it. Why do you ask?" "You remember that we promised not to hide anything from one another?" "Of course I remember." "Well, then, I think I have hit on a sort of a clew to the Ogilvey part of the mystery, at any rate. By the merest chance, while awaiting the return of Mr. Burt's man from the village, our talk turned on the history of this house. He spoke of the Faulkners, and mentioned the fact that the eldest son of a daughter of the family, a Mrs. Ogilvey, was born here. That would be some fifty odd years ago. How old is your father?" "Fifty-four." "The dates tally, at all events." Meg knitted her brows over this cryptic remark. "But," she said, "if you imply that my father may be the son of a Mrs. Ogilvey, that would mean that his name never was Garth." "Exactly." "Isn't such a guess rather improbable? I am twenty-two, and I was born in this very house, and I lived here twenty years except during school terms at Brighton and in Brussels, and we were known as Garths during all that long time."