"It's a very interesting matter," he said, "and, when I've got the invalid off my hands, I'll inquire further into the historical side of it. You see, the style of coloring and craftsmanship should enable an expert to date the window within very few years of its actual period. Ah, here's your man! I hope he found the bicyclist at home?"
Assurance on that head was soon forthcoming. Armathwaite returned to the Grange, and, while going to Whittaker's room, he glanced curiously at the wall near the clock. Though a sufficiency of light still came through the window, and the mellow colors in a vignette border were surprisingly bright, there was not the slightest semblance of an apparition in the hall.
But, such was the force of suggestion, after Burt's hint at bygone practice of the black arts within those ancient walls, he found now that the face framed in the open visor was cadaverous in the extreme, and had a sinister and repellent aspect.
Cynic though he was in some respects, as he mounted the creaking stairs, he wondered.
CHAPTER X
ARMATHWAITE STATES A CASE
After endeavoring, with no marked success, to console a fretful invalid with promises of alleviation of his sufferings by a skilled hand—promises made with the best of intent, though doomed to disappointment, because the immediate use of a tight bandage was precisely the treatment which any doctor would have recommended—Armathwaite joined Marguérite in a belated meal.
The spirit of an infuriated cook must have raged in Mrs. Jackson's breast when she bade Betty "tell 'em to mak' the best of it, because everything is spiled." Nevertheless, they dined well, since Yorkshire love of good fare would not permit a real débâcle among the eatables.
Marguérite was utterly downcast when Armathwaite informed her that Percy Whittaker would be lucky if he could trust his weight on the injured ankle within the next month.