"Ah, of course! of course! But time is the great healer. I'll pray for continued fine weather, so that her beloved moor may smile on her arrival. Well, well! I feel as though I had seen—er—seen a fairy. Mind you don't vanish before I come downstairs. I'm ready now, Mr. Armathwaite."
The worthy doctor had nearly blundered, but he had executed what Americans call a "side-step" neatly enough. Armathwaite smiled at the girl. She had passed this initial test with honors. A couple more such experiences, and James Walker would be flouted as a mischievous fool if he talked of Stephen Garth being alive.
As he piloted the doctor upstairs, Armathwaite glanced at the window of ill-omen. The light of the lamp had conquered the external gloaming. The leaded divisions of colored glass were apparently of one uniform tint. Even the somber figure in black armor had lost its predominance.
Whittaker, who was lying on his back, tried to turn when the two men entered his bedroom. He groaned, and said querulously:
"Couldn't you have got here sooner, doctor? I'm suffering the worst sort of agony. This confounded ankle of mine must have been tied up all wrong."
"We'll soon put that right," said Scaife, with professional cheerfulness. "Will you hold the lamp, Mr. Armathwaite, while I have a look? What time did the accident happen?"
"Exactly at half-past seven," said Armathwaite.
The doctor consulted his watch.
"Oh, come now, you're really very fortunate, Mr.——"
"Whittaker," put in Armathwaite.