The early hour at which it had been sent off—from a town, too, which he rightly estimated as a good many miles distant from Warleggan, showed that Mrs. Suarez had contrived to get a telegram through to Cornwall the previous night, so Percy Whittaker's mischievous interference had proved quite successful.
Then, with lightning clarity came the belief that Percy Whittaker was responsible for Marguérite's flight. Armathwaite scouted the notion that she had such a thing in her mind when she came to him in the garden. Her nature was incapable of guile. Had she formed some fantastic scheme during the watches of the night she would never have put her troubles aside to share in his light-hearted planning of a new and glorified garden. In fact, he recalled her sudden dismay because of her seeming neglect of the invalid, and now he knew that he had not seen her since she went upstairs, whereas Whittaker himself had sent more than one urgent summons for her subsequently.
Stifling his fury as best he might, Armathwaite hurried to Whittaker's room.
"A telegram has just come for you," he said, and watched the younger man's face as he read. It was a long screed, and evidently bored its recipient.
"Oh, it's only from my sister," came the languid explanation. "By the way, where's Miss Garth?"
"Gone, I think."
"Gone!" Whittaker rose on an elbow and glowered at Armathwaite. "What the devil do you mean by 'gone'? Where has she gone to?" he cried.
"I want you to answer that question," and Armathwaite's voice was strangely harsh and threatening. "She came to you half an hour ago. Did you say anything likely to distress her? Tell me the truth, or I'll pound your face to a jelly."
His aspect had suddenly become so menacing that Whittaker wilted; his head sank back to the pillow, and his eyelids twitched with fright.
"That's no way to talk——" he began, but the other seized him by the shoulder with his left hand and clenched his right fist suggestively.