"Shall we turn back?" he said. "This fellow in front looks like a weary tourist, but I fancy you don't want to meet anyone just now, and I haven't noticed a branch path through the heather."
Marguérite was gazing curiously at the bent figure. Her eyes held the expression of one who sees something familiar while the other senses refuse to be convinced. Armathwaite, by reason of the veil, could not see that half-startled, wholly skeptical look, but her attitude was enough.
"Do you think you know that chap?" he said.
Perhaps, in that quiet moorland, his voice carried farther than he imagined. Be that as it may, the tired one raised his drooping head, and looked their way.
"Why, it is—it must be!" cried Marguérite excitedly, though no man could guess whether she was pleased or annoyed.
"There can be no doubt about it," agreed Armathwaite.
"But, don't you see, he's waving to us? It's Percy Whittaker! Has he dropped from the skies?"
"With a bump, I should guess," said Armathwaite.
But inwardly he raged. Were these complications never to cease? That dejected figure was eloquent of fate. Somehow, its worn and nerveless aspect was menacing.
Yet, he laughed, being one who flaunted fortune in that way.