"Yes, sir."
"Is it a strong machine?"
"Yes, sir."
"Lend it to me for the day, and I'll give you a sovereign."
"Right you are, sir!" came the hearty response. "Is there anything to go back to the post office?"
"Nothing. Raise the saddle of your bicycle, and see that the tires are in good order. Here's your money."
In an incredibly short time Armathwaite was pushing the bicycle up the steep road to the moor. He walked with long, swinging strides, and was soon lost to sight, because the trees behind the Grange hid the highway from any part of the house or grounds, and no one dared risk his wrath by going out into the road to watch him.
He climbed swiftly yet steadily, and conquered the worst part of the hill in fifteen minutes. Then he mounted the bicycle, and got over the ground rapidly. Thus, within less than an hour after Marguérite Ogilvey had escaped from the Grange—in the first instance by taking refuge in her bedroom, and, while Betty was talking to Whittaker, by slipping downstairs and climbing through a window in the library—Armathwaite saw her—a lonely figure in that far-flung moorland, walking in the direction of Leyburn.
Apparently, she had grabbed her hat and mackintosh coat when passing through the hall, and was carrying them, because the sun was glinting in her coils of brown hair. No stranger who met her would take her for other than a summer visitor. Certainly, no one would guess the storm of grief and terror that raged in her heart.
The bicycle sped along with a silent speed that soon lessened the distance between the two. Armathwaite did not wish to startle her by a too sudden appearance, so he rang the bell when yet fifty yards in the rear.