Yet, even his sluggish pulses could be stirred. The house which had witnessed strange scenes played by stronger actors might be trusted to deal sternly with this popinjay. He got his first taste of its quality before he was an hour older.
CHAPTER IX
SHOWING THE REAL STRENGTH OF AN ILLUSION
Armathwaite went straight to Farmer Burt's house. He reasoned that Burt would be a likely possessor of a smart cob, and that among the farm hands would exist at least one boy of sufficient intelligence to carry through a simple commission without error. He was lucky in finding the farmer at home, watering his stock before completing the hay-making operations. In the bleak North the agriculturist wastes no time when the weather is propitious. If need be, Burt and his men would work till nearly midnight, and feel well pleased if thereby the last rick of dry, sweet-smelling hay was covered with a tarpaulin.
Explanation, backed by ample payment, produced both the boy and the cob. In the result, the following telegram was handed in at Bellerby post-office ten minutes before the closing hour of eight:
"Postmaster, York,—Kindly give this telegram and accompanying ten pounds to proprietor of principal garage in York. I want to hire powerful and reliable car with experienced chauffeur for one week at least. Will pay full rates on condition that car reaches me by noon to-morrow, Friday. Chauffeur should bring ample supply of petrol, as none available here. I send ten pounds as guarantee for order, and will remit balance of first week's charge in accordance with instructions conveyed by chauffeur. Owner of car will oblige by telegraphing acceptance of offer, with name and address, early to-morrow, paying porterage, which will be refunded.—Armathwaite, The Grange, Elmdale, viâ Bellerby."
It was a singular fact that the really effective means of burking inquiry by the local authorities only occurred to Armathwaite's perplexed brain as he was hurrying back to the Grange. When all was said and done, who in Elmdale actually knew that the erstwhile Stephen Garth was living? His daughter and Percy Whittaker! He, Armathwaite, could not even be certain that Whittaker had ever seen the man. Well, then, Marguérite had only to vow that her earlier statement was a sheer invention, a species of joke inspired by the worst possible taste—and Stephen Garth would rest quietly in his grave! The pretense left the mystery insoluble as ever where the girl herself was concerned, but that phase of the difficulty might be dealt with in the privacy of her own home. The chief draw-back—an official inquiry, with its far-reaching developments—would be surmounted. The Jacksons might be trusted to forget everything they had heard that day. There remained James Walker. Well, his evidence was discredited at the outset. Armathwaite himself would be a most convincing witness against Walker. It would be easy to show that the pushful and amorous youth who had bluffed his way into the house in order to insult a lady who would have nothing to do with him, and was forcibly ejected by the new tenant, had fallen into a singular and most amazing blunder when he said that Marguérite Garth had told him that her father was still alive.
The more Armathwaite reviewed this possible way out of a really threatening situation the more he liked it. The surprising thing was that he had not thought of it sooner. Even Percy Whittaker's confounded impertinence in telegraphing to his sister was robbed of its sting. Suppose the police got wind of the message, they would make little of it. How did it run? "Meg greatly disturbed by rumors concerning death which occurred in Grange two years ago." It was awkwardly phrased, perhaps, but was capable of explanation. She was "disturbed" by the "rumors." What rumors? Not that her father was not dead, but that some other man had died and been buried in his place! Who had spread the rumors? Why, Walker himself! Had he not jeered at Marguérite, and endeavored to palliate his offense by repeating the absurd tittle-tattle to the man who had kicked him out of the house? Thin ice, this; but it might bear if not pressed unduly. By rare luck Whittaker had asked his sister to communicate with the girl's mother. There was no reference to her father. In effect, a friend of long standing had recognized the fact that she had only one parent left.
Armathwaite was bothered by no scruples in this matter. He had promised Marguérite Ogilvey his help in her efforts to safeguard the father whom she held so dear, and he would fulfill his bond to the letter. Personally, he ran no risk. His acquaintance with Elmdale and its strange tragedy was only a day old. As for Marguérite herself, no jury in the land would punish a daughter who lied to protect her own father. There remained Percy Whittaker. What crooked line would that curiously-constituted youth take? He could be bribed into acquiescence; but what terms would he exact? Armathwaite felt a certain tightening of his lips when he answered his own question. At any rate, the vitally important thing now was to gain time, and he was confident that a bold front would carry a most attractive and winsome girl past the dangers of the morrow.