"An excellent morning," said Armathwaite. "Have you brought my boxes?"
"Yes, sir. They be rare an' heavy, an' all."
"You and I can manage them between us, I have no doubt," and Armathwaite led the way to the gate. As they passed the dining-room, Bland stared candidly through the window, but the girl was not visible.
"I didn't reckon on seein' Miss Meg to-day, sir," he said.
"Miss Meg? Who's Miss Meg?" smiled the other.
"Why, poor Mr. Garth's lass, to be sure."
"Ah! My cousin thought you were under the impression that you recognized her. But you are mistaken. The lady you saw is Miss Marguérite Ogilvey."
"Is she now? Well, that takes it! I could ha' sworn—Miss who, sir?"
Armathwaite repeated the name, and Tom Bland scratched his head. He was elderly, and weather-tanned as the Nuttonby porter, but his occupation had quickened his wits; there are times when one should not reiterate an opinion.
"You'll not have tried the beck yet, sir?" he said, twisting the conversation rather obviously. "I had a turn in the Swale meself last evenin'—this water runs into it, ye ken, an' the troot were risin' fine."