← catalogue

The Search Party

by George A. Birmingham · English · Gutenberg #44751 · 456,022 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Search Party
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: The Search Party

Author: George A. Birmingham


        
Release date: January 25, 2014 [eBook #44751]
                Most recently updated: October 24, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/44751

Credits: Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Fred Salzer and the Online
        Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
        file was produced from images generously made available
        by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SEARCH PARTY ***

  THE SEARCH PARTY

  BY

  G. A. BIRMINGHAM

  AUTHOR OF “SPANISH GOLD,” “LALAGE’S LOVERS,”
  “THE SIMPKINS PLOT,” ETC.

  [Illustration]

  HODDER & STOUGHTON

  NEW YORK

  GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY




THE SEARCH PARTY




THE SEARCH PARTY




CHAPTER I


Dr. O’Grady, Dr. Lucius O’Grady, was the medical officer of the Poor
Law Union of Clonmore, which is in Western Connacht. The office is
not like that of resident magistrate or bank manager. It does not
necessarily confer on its holder the right of entry to the highest
society. Therefore, Dr. O’Grady was not invited to dinner, luncheon,
or even afternoon tea by Lord Manton at that season of the year when
Clonmore Castle was full of visitors. Lady Flavia Canning, Lord
Manton’s daughter, who was married to a London barrister of some
distinction, and moved in smart society, did not appreciate Dr.
O’Grady. Nor did those nephews and nieces of the deceased Lady Manton
who found it convenient to spend a part of each summer at Clonmore
Castle. They were not the sort of people who would associate with a
dispensary doctor, unless, indeed, he had possessed a motor car. And
Dr. O’Grady, for reasons which became obvious later on, did not keep a
motor car.

On the other hand, he was a frequent guest at the Castle during those
early summer months when Lord Manton was alone. In April and May, for
instance, and in June, Dr. O’Grady dined once, twice, or even three
times a week at Clonmore Castle. The old earl liked him because he
found him amusing; and Dr. O’Grady had a feeling for his host as
nearly approaching respect as it was in his nature to entertain for
any man. This respect was not of the kind which every elderly earl
would have appreciated. The doctor was constitutionally incapable of
understanding the innate majesty of a peerage, and had not the smallest
veneration for grey hairs in man or woman. Nor was he inclined to bow
before any moral superiority in Lord Manton. In fact, Lord Manton,
though grown too old for the lavish wildness of his earlier years,
made no pretence at morality or dignity of any kind. What Dr. O’Grady
respected and liked in him was a certain cynical frankness, a hinted
contempt for all ordinary standards of respectability. This suited
well enough the doctor’s own volatile indifference to anything which
threatened to bore him.

When Lord Manton returned to Clonmore in May, 1905, after his usual
visit to his daughter in Grosvenor Street, he at once asked Dr.
O’Grady to dinner. There was on this occasion a special reason for the
invitation, though doubtless it would have been given and accepted
without any reason. Lord Manton wanted to know all that could be known
about a new tenant who had taken Rosivera for six months. Rosivera,
long used as a dower house by Lord Manton’s ancestors, was not an easy
place to let. It stood eight miles from the village of Clonmore, on
the shore of a small land-locked bay. It was a singularly unattractive
building, rectangular, grey, four storeys high, and lit by small
ineffective windows. There was no shooting connected with it nor any
fishing of the kind appreciated by a sportsman. There were, it was
believed, small flat fish to be caught in the bay, but no one thought
it worth while to pursue these creatures earnestly. Occasionally an
adventurous Englishman, cherishing some romantic idea of the west of
Ireland, rented the house for August and September. Occasionally a
wealthy Dublin doctor brought his family there for six weeks. None of
these tenants ever came a second time. The place was too solitary for
the social, too ugly for the amateurs of the picturesque, utterly dull
for the sportsman, and had not even the saving grace of an appeal to
the romantic. The mother and grandmother of Lord Manton had died there,
but in the odour of moderate sanctity. Their ghosts wandered down no
corridors. Indeed, no ghosts could have haunted, no tradition attached
itself to a house with the shape and appearance of Rosivera.

There was, therefore, something interesting and curious in the fact
that a tenant had taken the place for six months and had settled down
there early in March, a time of year at which even a hermit, vowed to a
life entirely devoid of incident, might have hesitated to fix his cell
at Rosivera.

“The first thing that struck me as queer about the man,” said Lord
Manton, after dinner, “was his name. Did you ever hear of anybody
called Red? Scarlett, of course, is comparatively common.”

“So is Black,” said Dr. O’Grady, “and Brown, and Grey, and White. I’ve
heard of Pink, and I once met a man called Blue, but he spelt it ‘ew.’”

“Guy Theodore Red is this man’s name. Guy and Theodore are all right,
of course, but Red----!”

“Is he safe for the rent, do you think?”

“He has paid the whole six months in advance,” said Lord Manton, “and
he never asked a question about the drains. He’s the only tenant I ever
heard of who didn’t make himself ridiculous about drains.”

“He hasn’t got typhoid yet,” said Dr. O’Grady. “If he’s the kind of man
who pays six months’ rent in advance and asks no questions, I hope he
soon will.”

“Unfortunately for you he seems to have neither wife nor children.”

“No, nor as much as a maid-servant,” said Dr. O’Grady. “And from the
look of him, I’d say he was a tough old cock himself, the sort of man a
microbe would hesitate about attacking.”

“You’ve seen him, then?”

“I happened to be standing at Jimmy O’Loughlin’s door the day he drove
through in his motor car.”

“You would be, of course.”

“But I’ve never seen him since. Nobody has. He has a servant, an
Englishman, I’m told, who comes into the village every second day in
the motor, and buys what’s wanted for the house at Jimmy O’Loughlin’s.”

“Jimmy makes a good thing out of that, I expect,” said Lord Manton.

“Believe you me, he does. Jimmy’s the boy who knows how to charge, and
these people don’t seem to care what they pay.”

“I hear he has two friends with him.”

“He has, foreigners, both of them. Jimmy O’Loughlin says they can’t
either of them speak English. It was Jimmy who carted their things down
to Rosivera from the station, so of course he’d know.”

“Byrne told me that,” said Lord Manton, chuckling as he spoke. “There
seems to have been some queer things to be carted.”

The conversation turned on Mr. Red’s belongings, the personal luggage
which the English servant had brought in the train, the packing-cases
which had followed the next day and on many subsequent days. Byrne,
it appeared, had also met Mr. Red and his party on their arrival; but,
then, Byrne had a legitimate excuse wherewith to cover his curiosity.
He was Lord Manton’s steward, and it was his business to put the new
tenant in possession of Rosivera. He had given a full report of Mr.
Red, the foreign friends and the English servant, to Lord Manton. He
had described the packing-cases which, day after day, were carted from
the railway station by Jimmy O’Loughlin. They were, according to Byrne,
of unusual size and great weight. There were altogether twenty-five
of them. It was Byrne’s opinion that they contained pianos. The
station-master, who had to drag them out of the train, agreed with him.
Jimmy O’Loughlin and his man, who had ample opportunities of examining
them on the way to Rosivera, thought they were full of machinery,
possibly steam engines, or as they expressed it, “the makings of some
of them motor cars.”

“No man,” said Lord Manton, commenting on this information, “even if
his name happens to be Red, can possibly want twenty-five grand pianos
in Rosivera.”

“Unless he came down here with the intention of composing an opera,”
said Dr. O’Grady.

“Even then--three, four, anything up to six I could understand, but
twenty-five! No opera could require that. As for those cases containing
steam engines or bits of motor cars, what on earth could a manufacturer
of such things be doing at Rosivera?”

“My own belief,” said Dr. O’Grady, “is that the man is an artist--a
sculptor, engaged in the production of a statue of unusual size.”

“With blocks of marble in the packing-cases?”

“Yes, and the two foreigners for models. They look like models. One
of them had a long black beard, and the other was a big man, well
over six foot, blond, seemed to be a Norwegian; not that I ever saw a
Norwegian to my knowledge, but this fellow looked like the kind of man
a Norwegian ought to be.”

“It will be a pretty big statue,” said Lord Manton, “if it absorbs
twenty-five blocks of marble, each the size of a grand piano.”

“He looked like an artist,” said Dr. O’Grady; “he had a pointed beard,
and a wild expression in his eye.”

“A genius escaped from somewhere, perhaps.”

“He very well might be. Indeed, I’d say from the glimpse I had of him
that he’s worse than a genius. He had the eye of a mad gander. But,
of course, I only saw him the once, sitting in his motor, the day
he arrived. He hasn’t stirred out of Rosivera since, and, as I said
before, I haven’t been sent for to attend him for anything.”

“The queerest thing about him was the message he sent me,” said Lord
Manton. “By way of doing the civil thing, I told Byrne to say that I
should make a point of calling on him as soon as I got home.”

“And he sent you word that he’d be thankful if you’d stay away and not
bother him. I heard all about that. Byrne was furious. That is just one
of the things which makes me feel sure he’s a genius. Nobody except a
genius or a socialist would have sent a message of that kind to you;
and he clearly isn’t a socialist. If he was, he couldn’t afford to pay
six months’ rent in advance for Rosivera.”

Dr. O’Grady spoke confidently. He was not personally acquainted with
any of the numerous men of genius in Ireland, but he had read about
them in newspapers and was aware that they differed in many respects
from other men. No ordinary man, that is to say, no one who is
perfectly sane, would refuse to receive a visit from an earl. Mr. Red
had refused, and so, since he was not a socialist, he must be a genius.
The reasoning was perfectly convincing.

“I expect,” said Lord Manton, “that his statue, in spite of its
immense size, will be a melancholy object to look at. Rosivera is the
most depressing place I know. It was built to serve as a dower house
by my grandfather, and he evidently chose the site and the style of
architecture with a view to making his widow feel really sorry he was
dead. If I had a wife whom I disliked intensely I should try to die
at once so that she should have as long a time as possible to live at
Rosivera.”

“I wouldn’t care to spend a winter alone there,” said Dr. O’Grady, “and
I’m a man of fairly cheerful disposition.”

“I suppose there’s a lot of talk about Red in the village?”

“There was at first; but the people are getting a bit sick of him now.
It’s a long time since he’s done anything the least exciting. About a
fortnight after he came he sent a telegram which had the whole place
fizzing for awhile.”

Telegrams in the west of Ireland, are, of course, public property. So
are postcards and the contents of the parcels carried by his Majesty’s
mails. Lord Manton, whose taste for the details of local gossip was
strongly developed, asked what Mr. Red’s telegram was about.

“That’s what nobody could tell,” said Dr. O’Grady. “It began with
four letters, A.M.B.A., and then came a lot of figures. Father Moroney
worked at it for the best part of two hours, with the help of a Latin
dictionary, but he could make no more out of it than I could myself.”

“Cipher,” said Lord Manton; “probably quite a simple cipher if you’d
known how to go about reading it.”

“At the end of the week, another packing-case arrived, carriage paid
from London. It was as big as any of the first lot. Byrne and I went
up to the station to see it before Jimmy O’Loughlin carted it down to
Rosivera. He seemed to think that it was another piano. Since then
nothing of any sort has happened, and the people have pretty well given
over talking about the man.”

Lord Manton yawned. Like the other inhabitants of Clonmore he was
beginning to get tired of Mr. Red and his affairs. A stranger is only
interesting when there are things about him which can be found out. If
his affairs are public property he becomes commonplace and dull. If, on
the other hand, it is manifestly impossible to discover anything about
him, if he sends his telegrams in cipher, employs a remarkably taciturn
servant to do his marketing, and never appears in public himself, he
becomes in time quite as tiresome as the man who has no secrets at all.

“Any other news about the place?” asked Lord Manton. “You needn’t
mention Jimmy O’Loughlin’s wife’s baby. Byrne told me about it.”

“It’s the tenth,” said Dr. O’Grady, “the tenth boy.”

“So I believe.”

“Well, there’s nothing else, except the election of the inspector of
sheep dipping. I needn’t tell you that there’s been plenty of talk
about that.”

“So I gathered,” said Lord Manton, “from the number of candidates for
the post who wrote to me asking me to back them up. I think there were
eleven of them.”

“I hear that you supported Patsy Devlin, the smith. He’s a drunken
blackguard.”

“That’s why I wrote him the letter of recommendation. There’s a lot of
stupid talk nowadays about the landlords having lost all their power
in the country. It’s not a bit true. They have plenty of power, more
than they ever had, if they only knew how to use it. All I have to do
if I want a particular man not to be appointed to anything is to write
a strong letter in his favour to the Board of Guardians or the County
Council, or whatever body is doing the particular job that happens to
be on hand at the time. The League comes down on my man at once and he
hasn’t the ghost of a chance. That’s the beauty of being thoroughly
unpopular. Three years ago you were made dispensary doctor here chiefly
because I used all my influence on behalf of the other two candidates.
They were both men with bad records. It was just the same in this
sheep-dipping business. I didn’t care who was appointed so long as it
wasn’t Patsy Devlin. I managed the labourers’ cottages on the same
principle. There were two different pieces of land where I particularly
objected to their building cottages. I offered them those two without
waiting to be asked. Of course, they wouldn’t have them, insisted in
fact on getting another bit of land altogether, thinking they were
annoying me. I was delighted. That’s the way to manage things nowadays.”

“Do you suppose,” said Dr. O’Grady, “that if I wrote to Mr. Red saying
I sincerely hoped he wouldn’t get typhoid for a fortnight, because I
wanted to go away for a holiday--do you suppose he’d get it to spite
me?”

“That’s the worst of men in your profession. You’re always wanting
everybody to be ill. It’s most unchristian.”

“I want Red to get typhoid,” said Dr. O’Grady, “because he’s the only
man in the neighbourhood except yourself who would pay me for curing
him.”




CHAPTER II


Dr. O’Grady spoke the simple truth when he said that the people of
Clonmore had ceased to take any interest in Mr. Red and his household.
The election of an inspector of sheep dipping, a man from their own
midst to a post with a salary attached to it, was a far more exciting
thing than the eccentricity of a chance stranger. When the election was
over a new and more thrilling matter engaged their attention. Mr. Red
was entirely forgotten. The monotonous regularity of the visits of the
silent English servant to Jimmy O’Loughlin’s shop no longer attracted
attention. The equally monotonous regularity of his cash payments for
the goods he took away with him was extremely satisfactory to Jimmy
O’Loughlin, but gave absolutely no occasion for gossip. The man who
makes debts and does not pay them is vastly more interesting to his
neighbours than the morbidly honest individual who will not owe a penny.

Dr. O’Grady owed a good deal, and just at the time of Lord Manton’s
return to Clonmore, his money difficulties reached the point at which
they began to attract public attention. Like most good-humoured and
easy-going men, Dr. O’Grady lived beyond his income. There was a good
deal of excuse for him. He enjoyed, as dispensary doctor, a salary of
£120 a year. He received from Lord Manton an additional £30 for looking
after the health of the gardeners, grooms, indoor servants and others
employed about Clonmore Castle. He would have been paid extra guineas
for attending Lord Manton himself if the old gentleman had ever been
ill. He could count with tolerable certainty on two pounds a year for
ushering into the world young O’Loughlins. Nobody else in his district
ever paid him anything.

It is unquestionably possible to live on £152 a year. Many men,
curates for instance, live on less; face the world in tolerably
clean collars and succeed in looking as if they generally had enough
to eat. But Dr. O’Grady was not the kind of man who enjoys small
economies, and he had certain expensive tastes. He liked to have a
good horse between the shafts of a smart trap when he went his rounds.
He liked to see the animal’s coat glossy and the harness shining. He
preferred good whisky to bad, and smoked tobacco at 10_s._ 6_d._ a
pound. He was particular about the cut of his clothes and had a fine
taste in striped and spotted waistcoats. He also--quite privately,
for in the west of Ireland no one would admit that he threw away his
money wantonly--bought a few books every year. The consequence was
inevitable. Dr. O’Grady got into debt. At first, indeed for more than
two years, his debts, though they increased rapidly, did not cause any
uneasiness to his creditors. Then a suspicious tailor began to press
rudely for the payment of a long account. Other tradesmen, all of
them strangers who did not know Dr. O’Grady personally, followed the
tailor’s example. A Dublin gentleman of large fortune and philanthropic
tastes, a Mr. Lorraine Vavasour, having somehow heard of these
embarrassments, offered to lend Dr. O’Grady any sum from £10 to £1000
privately, without security, and on the understanding that repayment
should be made quite at the borrower’s convenience.

There was an agreeable settlement with the tailor who lost Dr.
O’Grady’s custom for ever, and with several others. Life for a time
was pleasant and untroubled. Then Mr. Lorraine Vavasour began to act
unreasonably. His ideas of the payment of instalments turned out to
be anything but suitable to Dr. O’Grady’s convenience. The good horse
was sold at a loss. The competent groom was replaced for an inferior
and cheaper man. Mr. Lorraine Vavasour showed no signs of being
propitiated by these sacrifices. He continued to harass his victim with
a persistency which would have made most men miserable and driven some
men to excessive drinking. Dr. O’Grady remained perfectly cheerful.
He had the temperament of an unconquerable optimist. He used even to
show Mr. Vavasour’s worst letters to Jimmy O’Loughlin, and make jokes
about them. This, as it turned out afterwards, was an unwise thing to
do. Jimmy himself had a long account against the doctor standing in his
books.

After awhile the miserable screw which succeeded the good horse in
Dr. O’Grady’s stable was sold. The smart trap and harness were sold.
The incompetent substitute for the groom was dismissed. Dr. O’Grady
endeavoured to do his work with no better means of getting about than
a dilapidated bicycle. It was generally known that his affairs had
reached a crisis. His housekeeper left him and engaged a solicitor
to write letters in the hope of obtaining the wages due to her. It
seemed very unlikely that she would get them. Mr. Lorraine Vavasour
was before her with a claim which the furniture of Dr. O’Grady’s house
would certainly not satisfy. Jimmy O’Loughlin was before her too.
He would have been willing enough to wait for years, and if left to
himself would not have driven a friend to extremities for the sake of
a few pounds. But when he saw that Mr. Vavasour meant to use all the
resources of the law against Dr. O’Grady he thought it a pity to let
a complete stranger get the little there was to get. He apologized to
Dr. O’Grady and summoned him before the County Court judge. The usual
things happened. The end appeared to be at hand, and the Board of
Guardians began to discuss the appointment of a new dispensary doctor.

It is very much to the credit of Dr. O’Grady that, under these
circumstances, he slept soundly at night in his solitary house; rose
cheerful in the morning and met his fellow-men with a smile on his
face. He continued to dine frequently at Clonmore Castle, and Lord
Manton noticed that his appetite improved instead of failing as his
troubles increased. In fact, Dr. O’Grady frequently went hungry at
this time, and Lord Manton’s dinners were almost the only solid meals
he got. Then, just before the bailiffs took possession of his house
a curious way of escape opened. It was at the beginning of August.
Dr. O’Grady spent the evening reading a new book about germ plasm,
pan-genesis, determinates, and other interesting things connected with
the study of heredity. He was obliged to go to bed early because his
lamp went out at ten o’clock and he had no oil with which to refill
it. Once in bed he went comfortably to sleep. At two o’clock in the
morning he was roused by a ponderous, measured knocking at his door. He
used the sort of language commonly employed by doctors who are roused
at unseemly hours. The knocking continued, a series of heavy detached
blows, struck slowly at regular intervals. Dr. O’Grady got up, put his
head out of the window, and made the usual inquiry--

“Who the devil’s that? And what do you want?”

“It is I. Guy Theodore Red.”

Even then, freshly roused from sleep, Dr. O’Grady was struck by the
answer he received. Very few men, in search of a doctor at two o’clock
in the morning, are so particular about grammar as to say, “It is
I!” And the words were spoken in a solemn tone which seemed quite
congruous with the measured and stately manner in which the door had
been hammered. Dr. O’Grady put on a pair of trousers and a shirt, ran
downstairs and opened the door. Mr. Red stood rigid like a soldier at
attention on the doorstep. In the middle of the road was the motor car
in which the English servant used to drive into Clonmore to do his
marketing.

“Is it typhoid?” said Dr. O’Grady; “for if it is I ought to have been
sent for sooner.”

“No.”

“It can’t be a midwifery case in your house?”

“No.”

“You’re very uncommunicative,” said Dr. O’Grady. “What is it?”

“A gun accident.”

“Very well. Why couldn’t you have said so before? Wait a minute.”

Dr. O’Grady hurried into his surgery, collected a few instruments
likely to be useful, some lint, iodoform, and other things. He stuffed
these into a bag, slipped on a few more clothes and an overcoat.
Then he left the house. He found Mr. Red sitting bolt upright in the
motor car with his hands on the steering wheel. Dr. O’Grady got in
beside him. During the drive Mr. Red did not speak a single word. He
did not even answer questions. Dr. O’Grady was left entirely to his
own thoughts. The fresh air had thoroughly awakened him, and, being
naturally a man of active mind, he thought a good deal. It occurred to
him at once that though gun accidents are common enough in the daytime
they very rarely occur in the middle of the night. Good men go to bed
before twelve o’clock, and no men, either good or bad, habitually clean
guns or go out shooting between midnight and two A.M. Dr. O’Grady began
to wonder how the accident had happened. It also struck him that Mr.
Red’s manners were peculiar. The man showed no sign of excitement. He
was not exactly rude. He was not, so far as Dr. O’Grady could judge, in
a bad temper. He was simply pompous, more pompous than any one whom Dr.
O’Grady had ever met before. He seemed to be obsessed with an idea of
his own enormous importance.

The impression was not removed when the car drew up at Rosivera.
Mr. Red blew three slow blasts on the horn, stepped out of the car,
stalked up to the door, and then stood, as he had stood in front of Dr.
O’Grady’s house, upright, rigid, his arms stretched stiffly along his
sides. The door was opened by the foreigner with the long black beard.
No word was spoken. Mr. Red raised his left hand and made some passes
in the air. His bearded friend raised his left hand and imitated the
passes with perfect solemnity. Mr. Red crossed the threshold, turned,
and solemnly beckoned to Dr. O’Grady to follow him.

“I see,” said the doctor, in a cheerful, conversational tone, “that you
are all Freemasons here. It’s an interesting profession. Or should I
call it a religion? I’m not one myself. I always heard it involved a
man in a lot of subscriptions to charities.”

Mr. Red made no reply. He crossed the hall, flung open a door with
a magnificent gesture, and motioned Dr. O’Grady to enter the
dining-room. The doctor hesitated for a moment. He was not a nervous
man, but he was startled by what he saw. The room was brightly lit with
four large lamps. The walls were hung with crimson cloth on which were
embroidered curious beasts, something like crocodiles, but with much
longer legs than crocodiles have, and with forked tongues. They were
all bright yellow, and stood out vividly from their crimson background.

“Enter,” said Mr. Red.

Dr. O’Grady faced the crocodiles. In the course of his medical
experience he had often met men who had seen such beasts in unlikely
places and been haunted by them unpleasantly; but his own conscience
was clear. He was strictly temperate, and he knew that the pictures on
the walls in front of him could not be a symptom of delirium. Mr. Red
followed him into the room and shut the door. It was painted crimson on
the inside, and a large yellow crocodile crawled across it.

“I suppose,” said Dr. O’Grady, “that you got leave from Lord Manton to
paper and paint the house. I dare say this sort of thing”--he waved his
hand towards the crocodile on the door, which was surrounded with a
litter of repulsive young ones--“is the latest thing in art; but you’ll
excuse my saying that it’s not precisely comfortable or soothing.
I hope you don’t intend to include one of those beasts in your new
statue.”

Mr. Red made no reply. He crossed the room, opened a cupboard, and
took out of it a bottle and some glasses. He set them on the table and
poured out some wine. Dr. O’Grady, watching his movements, was inclined
to revise the opinion that he had formed during the drive. Mr. Red was
not merely pompous. He was majestic.

“Drink,” said Mr. Red.

Dr. O’Grady looked at the wine dubiously. It was bright green. He was
accustomed to purple, yellow, and even white beverages. He did not like
the look of the stuff in the glass in front of him.

“If,” he said, “that is the liqueur which the French drink, absinthe,
or whatever they call it, I think I won’t venture on a whole claret
glass of it. I’m a temperate man, and I must keep my hand steady if
I’m to spend the rest of the night picking grains of shot out of your
friend.”

“Drink,” said Mr. Red again.

Dr. O’Grady felt that it was time to assert himself. He was a friendly
and good-tempered man, but he did not like being ordered about in
monosyllables.

“Look here,” he said, “I’m not a Freemason, or a Rosicrucian, or
an Esoteric Buddhist, or the Grand Llama of Thibet, or anything of
that kind. I don’t deny that your manner may be all right with other
sculptors, or with those who are initiated into your secrets, and I
dare say you have to live up to this thing in order to produce really
first-rate statues. But I’m only an ordinary doctor and I’m not
accustomed to it. If you have whisky or any other civilized drink, I
don’t mind taking a drop before I see the patient; but I’m not going
to run the risk of intoxicating myself with some strange spirit. And
what’s more, I’m not going to be talked to as if you were a newly
invented kind of automatic machine that can only utter one word at a
time and won’t say that unless a penny has been dropped into the slot.”

“Your fee,” said Mr. Red, laying an envelope on the table.

Dr. O’Grady took it up and opened it. It contained a ten pound Bank of
England note. His slight irritation passed away at once. Never before
in the course of his career as a doctor had he received so large a fee.
Then a sharp suspicion crossed his mind. A fee of such extravagant
amount must be meant to purchase something else besides his medical
skill. Men, even if they are as rich as Mr. Red appeared to be, even
if they have the eyes of a mad gander and an eccentric taste in house
decoration, do not pay ten pounds to a country doctor for dressing a
wound. Dr. O’Grady began to wonder whether he might not be called upon
to deal with the victim of some kind of foul play, whether he were
being paid to keep his mouth shut.

“Follow me,” said Mr. Red.

Dr. O’Grady followed him out of the dining-room and up two flights of
stairs. He made up his mind that his silence, supposing silence to be
possible, was worth more than ten pounds. He determined to keep Mr.
Red’s secret if it did not turn out to be a very gruesome one, but
to make Mr. Red pay handsomely. One hundred pounds was the amount he
fixed on. That sum, divided between Mr. Lorraine Vavasour and Jimmy
O’Loughlin, would pacify them both for a time.

Mr. Red stopped outside a bedroom door, and Dr. O’Grady saw on it four
large white letters, A.M.B.A. Mr. Red opened the door. On a bed at the
far end of the room lay the servant who used to drive into Clonmore and
buy things at Jimmy O’Loughlin’s shop. He was lying face downwards and
groaning.

“Exert your skill as a physician,” said Mr. Red, waving his hand in the
direction of the bed.

“Don’t you be a damneder ass than you can help,” said Dr. O’Grady
cheerfully.

He crossed the room and examined the man on the bed.

“Look here,” he said, turning to Mr. Red, “you told me that this man
was suffering from the result of an accident he had had with a gun.
Well, he isn’t. I defy any man to scorch the skin off the backs of both
his own legs with a gun. The thing simply couldn’t be done.”

“Exert your skill as a physician, and be silent,” said Mr. Red.

“You may fancy yourself to be the Cham of Tartary,” said Dr. O’Grady,
“or Augustus Cæsar, or Napoleon Bonaparte, or a Field Marshal in the
army of the Emperor of Abyssinia, but you’ve got to give some account
of how that man flayed the backs of his legs or else I’ll have the
police in here to-morrow.”

Mr. Red smiled, waved his hand loftily, and left the room.

Dr. O’Grady, his professional instinct aroused, proceeded to dress the
man’s wounds. They were not dangerous, but they were extremely painful,
and at first the doctor asked no questions. At length his curiosity
became too strong for him.

“How did you get yourself into such a devil of a state?” he asked.

The man groaned.

“It looks to me,” said Dr. O’Grady, “as if you’d sat down in a bath of
paraffin oil and then struck a match on the seat of your breeches. Was
that how it happened?”

The man groaned again.

“If it wasn’t that,” said Dr. O’Grady, “you must have tied a string
round your ankles, stuffed the legs of your trousers with boxes of
matches, and then rubbed yourself against something until they went
off. I can’t imagine anything else that could have got you into the
state that you’re in.”

“I was smoking,” said the man at last, “in the Chamber of Research.”

“In the what?”

“It’s what ’e calls it,” said the man. “I don’t know no other name for
it.”

“Perhaps the floor of the Chamber of Research was covered with
gunpowder behind where you were standing, and you dropped a lighted
match into it.”

“’Ow was I to know the stuff would go off?”

“If you knew it was gunpowder,” said Dr. O’Grady, “you might have
guessed it would go off if you dropped a match into it.”

“It weren’t gunpowder, not likely. It were some bloomin’ stuff ’e made.
’E’s always messing about making stuff, and none of it ever went off
before.”

“If you mean Mr. Red,” said Dr. O’Grady, “I can quite imagine that the
stuff he made wouldn’t go off. Unless, of course, it was intended not
to. From what I’ve seen of him so far, I should say that his notion
of manufacturing dynamite would be to take a hundredweight or so of
toothpowder, and say to it, ‘Powder, explode.’ Still, you ought to have
been more careful.”

“’E’s a damned ass,” said the man.

“He is,” said Dr. O’Grady. “Still, even an ass, if he goes on
experimenting for four months in a chamber specially set apart for
research, is sure to hit upon something that will explode by the end
of the time. By the way, do you happen to know where he got that
dining-room wall-paper with the crocodiles on it?”

The door opened and Mr. Red stalked into the room.

“Follow me,” he said to Dr. O’Grady.

“All right. I’ve finished with this fellow’s legs for the present. I’ll
call again to-morrow afternoon, or rather, this afternoon. He’ll get
along all right. There’s nothing to be frightened about. You may give
him a little beef-tea and---- Damn it all! Augustus Cæsar has gone!
Good-bye, my man. I’ll see you again soon. I must hurry off now. It
won’t do to keep the Field Marshal waiting. The crocodiles might get on
his nerves if he was left too long in the room alone with them.”




CHAPTER III


Dr. O’Grady left the room and closed the door behind him. His spirits,
owing to the ten-pound note which lay in his breast pocket, were
cheerful. He whistled “The Minstrel Boy” as he walked along the
passage. Just as he reached that part of the tune which goes with the
discovery of the boy in the ranks of death he stopped abruptly and
swore. He was seized from behind by two men, flung to the ground with
some violence, and held there flat on his back. A few useless struggles
convinced him that he could not make good his escape. He lay still and
looked at his captors. The foreign gentleman with the long black beard
was one of them. The other was the man whom Dr. O’Grady had declared
to be a Norwegian. He was a powerful man, adorned with a mass of fair
hair which fell down over his forehead and gave him a look of unkempt
ferocity. Behind these two who knelt beside and on Dr. O’Grady stood
Mr. Red.

“Hullo, Emperor!” said the Doctor, “what’s the game now? If you want
a gladiatorial show, with me and these two swashbucklers as chief
performers, you ought to have given me fair notice. You can’t expect a
man to put up much of a fight when he’s caught from behind just as he’s
in the middle of whistling a tune.”

“You have learned too much,” said Mr. Red, with fierce intensity.
“It is necessary in the interests of the Brotherhood to secure your
silence.”

“Right,” said Dr. O’Grady. “You shall secure it. One hundred and fifty
pounds down and the secrets of the Brotherhood are safe. Or if prompt
cash inconveniences you in any way, I’ll be quite content with your
name on the back of a bill. Jimmy O’Loughlin would cash it.”

“I have passed judgment on you,” said Mr. Red, “and the scales are
depressed on the side of mercy. Your life is spared. You remain a
captive until the plans of the Brotherhood are matured and discovery
can be set at defiance. Then you will be released.”

“If that’s all,” said Dr. O’Grady, “you needn’t have knocked me down
and set these two brigands to kneel on my chest and legs. I haven’t
the slightest objection to remaining a captive. I shall enjoy it. Of
course, I shall expect to be paid a reasonable fee for my time. I’m a
professional man.”

“Number 2 and Number 3,” said Mr. Red, “will bind you and convey you to
the place of confinement.”

He spoke a few words to his assistants in a language which Dr. O’Grady
did not understand. Two ropes were produced.

“If you choose to tie me up,” said Dr. O’Grady, “you can do it of
course. But you’ll simply be wasting time and energy. I’ve told you
already that I don’t in the least mind being a captive. Just you tell
me the place you want me to go to, and if it isn’t an insanitary,
underground dungeon, I shall step into it with the greatest pleasure,
and stay there without making the least attempt at escape as long as
you choose to go on paying me my fees.”

“Give your parole,” said Mr. Red.

“Parole? Oh, yes, of course; I know the thing you mean now. I’ll give
it, certainly--swear it if you like. And now, like a good man, tell
your fair-haired pirate to get off my legs. He’s hurting my left ankle
abominably.”

Mr. Red gave an order, and Dr. O’Grady was allowed to stand up.

“Now for the cell,” he said. “I know this house pretty well, and I
should suggest that you give me the two rooms on the top floor which
open into each other. And look here, Emperor, I’m a first-class
political prisoner, of course. I’m not going to do any hard labour, or
get out of bed before I want to in the morning. I must be decently fed,
and supplied with tobacco. You agree to all that I suppose?”

“Lead the prisoner upstairs,” said Mr. Red.

“One minute,” said Dr. O’Grady. “We haven’t settled yet about my fee.
Let me see, what would you say--my time is valuable, you know. I have
a very extensive practice, including the nobility and gentry of the
neighbourhood; Lord Manton, for instance, and Jimmy O’Loughlin’s wife.
What would you say to----? Good Lord! Emperor, put that thing down, it
might go off!”

Mr. Red had taken a revolver from his pocket, and pointed it at Dr.
O’Grady’s head.

“Lead the prisoner upstairs,” he said.

“I’m going all right,” said Dr. O’Grady. “But, like a good man, put
down that pistol. I dare say it’s not loaded, and I’m sure you don’t
mean to pull the trigger; but it makes me feel nervous. If you injure
me you will be in a frightful fix. There isn’t another doctor nearer
than Ballymoy, and he’s no good of a surgeon. Do be careful.”

Mr. Red took no notice of this remonstrance. He held the revolver at
arm’s length, pointed straight at Dr. O’Grady’s head. The doctor turned
quickly and walked upstairs. He was ushered into a large empty room,
and bidden to stand in a corner of it. Still covered by the threatening
revolver he watched various preparations made, first for his security,
then for his comfort. There were two windows in the room. The
black-bearded foreigner nailed barbed wire across them in such a way as
to make an entanglement through which it was impossible to thrust even
a hand.

“That’s quite unnecessary,” said Dr. O’Grady. “I’m familiar with this
house, have been over it half a dozen times with Lord Manton, and I
know that there’s a sheer drop of thirty feet out of those windows on
to the paved yard at the back of the house. I shouldn’t dream of trying
to jump out.”

Mr. Red stood with the revolver in his hand glaring at Dr. O’Grady. His
two assistants left the room.

“I do wish,” said the doctor plaintively, “that you’d put that gun
down.”

By way of reply, Mr. Red settled himself in an heroic attitude,
something like that usually adopted by the hero on the cover of a
sixpenny novel when he is defending his lady from desperate villains.
He kept the revolver levelled at Dr. O’Grady’s head. The bearded man,
Number 2, returned, dragging a small iron bedstead after him. Number 3
followed him with a mattress, pillows, and some blankets.

“For me?” said Dr. O’Grady. “Thanks. Now fetch a washhand-stand, a jug
and basin, a table, a couple of chairs, some food, tobacco, and a few
books. Then I’ll be able to manage along all right.”

One thing after another was added to the furniture of the room until
it began to look fairly comfortable. Dr. O’Grady observed with
satisfaction that a substantial meal was spread on the table, and a box
of cigars laid on the washhand-stand.

“Would it be any harm my asking,” he said, “how long you intend to keep
me here? I have some rather pressing engagements just at present, and
I should like to have an idea when I’ll get home. Of course, I don’t
press the question if it inconveniences the Brotherhood to answer it
before the plans are matured.”

“You shall be paid at the rate of £4 a day during the time that you are
detained,” said Mr. Red.

“Make it £5,” said Dr. O’Grady, “and I’ll stay a year with you and
settle my own washing bills.”

“In four weeks,” said Mr. Red, “the plans of the Brotherhood will be
matured, and you can be released.”

“I’m sorry it’s no longer,” said Dr. O’Grady. “The arrangement is
perfectly satisfactory to me. But look here, Emperor, have you taken
into consideration that I shall be missed? Before four weeks are out
they’ll be certain to start out looking for me. Search parties will go
out with lanterns and bloodhounds. You know the kind of thing I mean.
They won’t come straight here, of course; nobody has any reason to
suppose that I’m in this house; but sooner or later they certainly will
come. I don’t mind telling you that there are a couple of men--Jimmy
O’Loughlin for one, and Lorraine Vavasour for another--who will be
particularly keen on finding me. What will you do when they turn up?”

“The waters of the bay are deep,” said Mr. Red grimly. “Your body will
not be found.”

“I catch your meaning all right,” said Dr. O’Grady, “but I think
you’ll make a mistake if you push things to extremes in that way.
You’ve got the usual idea into your head that Ireland is a country
in which every one kills any one they don’t like, and no questions
are ever asked. I don’t in the least blame you for thinking so. Any
intelligent man, reading the newspapers, would be forced to that
conclusion; but, as a matter of fact, Ireland isn’t that sort of
country at all. We have our little differences with each other, of
course; all high-spirited people quarrel now and then, but we really
hardly ever drown anybody. We don’t want to; but even if we were ever
so keen we couldn’t without great risk. The country is overrun with
police, and---- I beg your pardon, did you speak?”

Mr. Red had not actually spoken. He had snarled in a curious and
vicious way.

“The police----” said Dr. O’Grady.

Mr. Red snarled again.

“If you object to my mentioning them by name,” said Dr. O’Grady,
“I won’t do it. All I wanted to say was that in Ireland they live
extremely dull lives, and any little excitement--a cattle drive, or
an escaped lunatic--is a positive godsend to them. A murder--perhaps
I ought to say an informal execution, such as you contemplate--would
bring them down to this neighbourhood in thousands. There’d be so many
of them that they simply wouldn’t be able to help tripping over my body
wherever you hid it. Don’t imagine that I’m saying all this with a view
to preventing your cutting my throat. What I’m really thinking about,
what you ought to be thinking about, is the Brotherhood. How will its
plans ever be matured if you get yourself hanged? And they will hang
you, you know.”

“I am prepared to die,” said Mr. Red majestically, “in the cause of the
Anti-Militarist Brotherhood of Anarchists.”

“Of course you are. Anybody who knows anything about military
anarchists knows that. My point is that your life is too valuable
to be thrown away. How would poor Long Beard get on? And the other
fair-haired highwayman? Neither of them knows a word of English.”

“If the accursed minions of an effete tyranny seize me----!”

“Quite so. I see your point. Death before dishonour, and all that kind
of thing. But why let it come to that? I am perfectly willing to stay
here as long as you like at the liberal salary you offer, cash down
every evening. I’m quite as anxious as you are to keep the accursed
minions of the what-do-you-call-it away from Rosivera. I don’t mind
telling you in confidence that I have reasons of my own for avoiding
any contact with the law at present. In my particular case it isn’t
nearly so effete as you appear to think it ought to be. But I needn’t
go into all that. It wouldn’t interest you, and it’s no pleasure to
me to talk about that beast Lorraine Vavasour. What I want to suggest
is a simple and practicable way of avoiding all fuss, and keeping the
accursed minions quiet in their barracks.”

“Speak,” said Mr. Red.

“I am speaking. For a man who hasn’t had any breakfast this morning, I
flatter myself I’m speaking pretty fluently. Don’t be captious, Field
Marshal. I don’t mind your manner a bit, now that I’m getting used to
it. I know that it’s quite the right kind of manner for a military
anarchist, but there’s no use over-doing it.”

“Your plan?” said Mr. Red, fingering the revolver.

“I wish you’d lay that weapon down, Emperor. I’ve told you half a dozen
times that I haven’t the least intention of trying to escape, and it
will be a horrid nuisance if the thing goes off and injures me. My
suggestion is simply this. I’ll write a letter blotted all over with
tears, saying that driven to desperation by Lorraine Vavasour and Jimmy
O’Loughlin I’ve committed suicide, and that all search for my body will
be vain. Owing to circumstances which I need not explain, circumstances
not unconnected with Lorraine Vavasour, the story will be believed in
Clonmore and no further steps will be taken in the matter. All you will
have to do is to drop the letter into the pillar-box which is only half
a mile from your gate. I happen to know that that box is cleared at
eight P.M., so any time to-day will do. I’ll address it to the police
sergeant.”

Mr. Red gave an order to one of the two foreigners. The man left the
room and returned in a few minutes with a supply of note-paper, a pen,
and a bottle of ink. He laid them beside the food on the table in the
middle of the room.

“Write,” said Mr. Red.

“I forgot to mention,” said Dr. O’Grady, “that I’m engaged to be
married to a young lady in Leeds. Miss Blow is her name--Adeline Maud
Blow. I dare say you’ve heard of her father in connection with cigars.
He’s a tobacconist and advertises a good deal. ‘Blow’s beauties,
twopence each.’ You must have heard of them. They’re beastly things as
a matter of fact, and I don’t recommend them to friends, but they’re
amazingly popular.”

“Write,” said Mr. Red.

“I am going to write. Don’t hustle me, like a good man. What I want to
say to you is this, that I must send a line to Adeline Maud as well as
to the police sergeant. I want to tell her that I’m not really dead,
only bluffing.”

“That,” said Mr. Red, “is impossible.”

“Nonsense. There’s nothing impossible about it. It’s just as easy to
write two letters as one. I shan’t mention the Brotherhood to her, and
if I did she would have more sense than to talk about it. If you don’t
believe me you can read the letter yourself.”

“I trust no woman.”

“That,” said Dr. O’Grady, “is a most illiberal sentiment, and I’m
surprised to hear you utter it. If you’d been an old-fashioned Tory
now, or an Irish landlord, or a Liberal Cabinet Minister, I could have
understood your position; but in a military----”

“Anti-militarist,” said Mr. Red.

“That’s what I meant. In an anti-militarist, that sort of prejudice
against women is most inconsistent. Who was it that hammered a nail
into Sisera’s head? A woman, and an anti-military woman. Who was it
that stuck a knife into that horrid beast Marat, when he was sitting
in his bath? A woman again. Who was it that shot that Russian governor
the other day? I’ve forgotten her name for the minute, but you know who
I mean. It was a woman. She did for him on a railway platform. And yet
you stand up there calling yourself an advanced kind of anarchist, and
say that you can’t trust a woman. Emperor, you ought to be ashamed of
yourself. Just think the matter out and you’ll see that when it comes
to thorough-going, out-and-out revolutions women are quite the most
trustworthy kind of people there are.”

Mr. Red gave another brief order in his foreign language. The
fair-haired anarchist stepped forward and took away the note-paper, pen
and ink.

“What are you at now?” said Dr. O’Grady. “Surely to goodness you’re not
going back on the suicide plan? Oh, very well. I can’t help it. But
you’ll be sorry afterwards when the police come here looking for me.”

“I have spoken,” said Mr. Red.

“You have not. You’ve growled occasionally, but nobody could call your
remarks speaking.”

“I leave you,” said Mr. Red. “Remember.”

“Remember what? Oh, you’re going, are you? Just wait one instant. You
refuse to let me write to Adeline Maud. Very well. You don’t know
Adeline Maud, but I do. Even supposing the police can’t find me, or my
body after you’ve cut my throat, and supposing that Jimmy O’Loughlin
and Lorraine Vavasour give up the pursuit--from what I know of Lorraine
I think it most unlikely that he will--you’ll still have to reckon with
Adeline Maud. She’s a most determined young woman. All the perseverance
which has gone to making ‘Blow’s beauties’ the popular smokes they are
at twopence each has descended from her father to her. When she finds
out that I’ve disappeared she’ll go on searching till she finds me.
The ordinary sleuth-hound is absolutely nothing to her for persistence
in the chase. It will be far wiser for you--in the interests of the
Brotherhood I mean--to let me head her off, by telling her that I’ll
turn up again all right.”

“Farewell,” said Mr. Red.

“I ought to mention before you go,” said Dr. O’Grady, “that Adeline
Maud may be in Clonmore to-morrow. I’m expecting a visit---- Damn it!
The fool is gone and shut the door behind him.”

Mr. Red had, in fact, entirely ignored the announcement of Miss
Blow’s impending arrival. He and his two friends left the room, and,
distrustful of the parole which had been given, locked the door behind
them. Dr. O’Grady turned to the breakfast provided for him with an
excellent appetite.

“Silly old ass that Emperor is,” he murmured. “I suppose now he’ll go
and sit down beside his yellow crocodiles in the dining-room and try to
invent some new kind of dynamite. He ought, as a matter of fact, to be
in an asylum. Some day he will be if he doesn’t blow himself up first.
Anyhow this is a jolly good business for me. If he chooses to pay me
four pounds a day for sitting here twiddling my thumbs, I’m quite
content. I only hope it will be some time before they think of looking
for me at Rosivera. I must try and hit on a plan for putting the police
off the scent. I wonder how long it will last. The Field Marshal
suggested four weeks. Seven times four--even putting it as low as four
pounds a day--and I’ll try to screw him up a bit--seven times four are
twenty-eight. And four times twenty-eight is a hundred and twelve. That
with the tenner I’ve got will make £122. I’ll make a clear £100 out of
it anyway, and they won’t have time to elect another dispensary doctor
before I get out.”




CHAPTER IV


Patsy Devlin strolled into the Imperial Hotel at noon. He found Jimmy
O’Loughlin, the proprietor, behind the bar, and was served at once with
a pint of porter.

“It’s fine weather for the hay, thanks be to God,” he observed.

In Connacht the hay harvest is gathered during the month of August, and
Patsy’s comment on the weather was seasonable.

“I’ve seen worse,” said Jimmy O’Loughlin. “But what’s on you at all,
Patsy, that you haven’t been next or nigh the place this two months or
more?”

“Be damn! but after the way you behaved over the election of the
inspector of sheep dipping, the wonder is that I’d ever enter your door
again. What would hinder you giving me the job as soon as another?”

Jimmy O’Loughlin did not wish to discuss the subject. He was, as a
trader ought to be, a peaceful individual, anxious to live on good
terms with all possible customers. He realized that the election was a
subject on which Patsy was likely to feel bitterly. He filled another
glass with porter from the tap and handed it silently across the
counter. Patsy tendered a coin in payment.

“I’ll not take it from you,” said Jimmy O’Loughlin heartily. “It would
be a queer thing if I wouldn’t give you a sup at my own expense now
that you are here after all this length of time. How’s herself?”

Patsy Devlin took a pull at the second pint of porter.

“She’s only middling. She was complaining these two days of an
impression on the chest, and a sort of rumbling within in herself that
wouldn’t let her rest easy in her bed.”

“Do you tell me that? And did you fetch the doctor to her?”

“I did not then.”

“And why not?”

Patsy Devlin finished the porter and winked across the bar at Jimmy
O’Loughlin. Jimmy failed to catch the meaning of the wink.

“If it was a red ticket you wanted,” he said, “you know very well that
you’ve nothing to do but ask me for it. But Dr. O’Grady, the poor man,
would go to you without that.”

“If I did be wanting a red ticket,” said Patsy, “it wouldn’t be you I’d
ask for it. There’s them would give it to me and maybe something along
with it, and what’s more, did give it to me no later than this morning.”

“Well,” said Jimmy, who guessed at the identity of the unnamed
benefactor, “and if so be that his lordship is after giving you the
ticket, why didn’t you go and fetch the doctor to herself?”

“I went for him right enough.”

“And do you mean to tell me that he refused to attend the call and you
with the red ticket in your hand? For if he did----”

“He wasn’t within when I went for him.”

The explanation was perfectly simple and natural; but Jimmy O’Loughlin,
noting the manner in which it was given, realized there was something
behind it.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

Patsy Devlin winked again. Jimmy, vaguely anxious, but not knowing what
to fear, handed his visitor a third pint of porter.

“I’m thinking,” said Patsy, “that it’s about time for us to be making a
move in the matter of collecting funds for the horse races and athletic
sports. The season’s going on and if we don’t have them before the end
of the month the days will be getting short on us. I suppose now I may
put you down for a pound the same as last year?”

“You may,” said Jimmy. “But what was it you were after telling me about
Dr. O’Grady?”

“Does he owe you any money?”

“He does, a power.”

“Then you’ll not see it. Devil the penny of it ever you’ll handle, no
matter how you try.”

Patsy chuckled. He had nourished a grudge against Jimmy O’Loughlin ever
since the election of the inspector of sheep dipping.

“And why will I not?”

“Because the doctor’s gone, that’s why. He’s off to America, and every
stick of furniture he owns is gone along with him.”

“He is not,” said Jimmy. “He couldn’t. It was only last night he passed
this door, looking the same as usual. I was speaking to him myself, and
him on his way home after being out beyond in the bog.”

“It was last night he went.”

“He couldn’t. Sure you know as well as I do there’s no train.”

“There’s the goods that passes at one o’clock. What would hinder him
getting into one of them cattle trucks? Who’d see him? Anyway, whether
it was that way he went or another, he’s gone. And you may be looking
for your money from New York. Be damn! but I’d take half a crown for
all of it you’ll ever get.”

“I don’t believe you,” said Jimmy; but it was evident that he was
fighting desperately against conviction.

“Go round to the house then yourself and you’ll see. He’s not in it,
and what’s more he didn’t leave it this morning, for old Biddy Halloran
was watching out for him along the road the way he’d renew the bottle
he gave her for the rheumatism, and if he’d gone out she’d have seen
him.”

“It might be,” said Jimmy, “that he was called out in the night and
didn’t get back yet.”

“It might; but it wasn’t. I’m after spending the morning since ten
o’clock making inquiries here and there, and devil the one there is in
the parish sick enough to be fetching the doctor out in the middle of
the night. If there was I’d have heard of it. And Father Moroney would
have heard of it, but he didn’t, for I asked him this minute.”

“And what did he say?”

“He said very much what I’m saying myself, that the doctor’s gone.
‘And small blame to him,’ says Father Moroney, ‘with the way that old
reprobate of a Jimmy O’Loughlin, who’s no better than a gombeen man,
has him persecuted for the trifle of money he owes.’ It’s the truth I’m
telling you.”

It was not the truth, but it could scarcely be called a lie, for the
essence of a lie is the desire to deceive, and Patsy Devlin invented
the speech he put into the priest’s mouth without the least hope of
its being believed. The best he expected was to exasperate Jimmy
O’Loughlin. Even in this he failed.

“If so be he’s gone,” said Jimmy, “and I wouldn’t say but he might,
I’d as soon he got clear off out of this as not. I’ll lose upwards
of thirty pounds by him, but I’d sooner lose it than see the doctor
tormented by that bloodsucker of a fellow from Dublin that has a bill
of his. I’ve a great liking for the doctor, and always had. He was an
innocent poor man that wouldn’t harm a child, besides being pleasant
and agreeable as e’er a one you’d meet.”

Patsy Devlin felt aggrieved. He had sprung his mine on Jimmy
O’Loughlin, and the wretched thing had somehow failed to explode. He
had looked forward to enjoying a torrent of oaths and bitter speeches
directed against the absconding debtor. He had hoped to see Jimmy
writhe in impotent rage at the loss of his money.

“Be damn!” he said helplessly.

“And anyway,” said Jimmy O’Loughlin, “there’s the furniture of the
house left, and it’ll be a queer thing if I don’t get a hold of the
best of it before ever the Dublin man--Vavasour or some such they call
him--hears that the doctor’s gone.”

There was no more spirit left in Patsy Devlin. He did not even repeat
the obviously incredible statement that the doctor had secretly carried
his furniture away with him in the middle of the night.

“The train’s in,” he said, changing the subject abruptly, “for I hear
the cars coming down from the station. If so be now that there should
be a traveller in belonging to one of them drapery firms, or Campbell’s
traveller with the flour, you might give me the word so as I can get a
subscription out of him for the sports. The most use those fellows are
is to subscribe to one thing or another where subscriptions is needed.”

Jimmy O’Loughlin nodded. He realized the importance of the commercial
traveller as a contributor to local funds of every kind. He left the
door and reached the bar of the hotel just as his bus, a ramshackle,
dilapidated vehicle drawn by a sickly horse, drew up. It contained a
lady. Jimmy O’Loughlin appraised her at a glance as she stepped out of
the bus. She was dressed in a grey tweed coat and skirt of good cut and
expensive appearance. She wore gloves which looked almost new, and she
had an umbrella with a silver handle. She was tall and carried herself
with the air of one who was accustomed to command service from those
around her. Her way of walking reminded Jimmy O’Loughlin of Lady Flavia
Canning, Lord Manton’s daughter; but this lady was a great deal younger
and better looking than Lady Flavia. Jimmy O’Loughlin allowed his eyes
to leave her for an instant and seek the roof of the bus. On it was a
large travelling trunk, a handsome bag, and a bundle of rugs and golf
clubs. Jimmy’s decision was made in an instant. He addressed his guest
as “my lady.”

She made no protest against the title.

“Can I get a room in this hotel?” she asked.

“Certainly, my lady. Why not? Thomas, will you bring the lady’s luggage
in at once and take it up to number two, that’s the front room on the
first floor. Your ladyship will be wanting a private sitting-room?”

“If I do,” she said, “I shall ask for it.”

Jimmy O’Loughlin was snubbed, but he bore no malice. A lady of title
has a right to snub hotel-keepers. He stole a glance at the label
on her luggage as Thomas, the driver of the bus, passed him with the
trunk on his shoulders. He discovered that she was not a lady of title.
“Miss A. M. Blow,” he read. “Passenger to Clonmore.” The name struck
him as being familiar, but for a moment he could not recollect where he
had heard it. Then he remembered. Miss Blow passed upstairs guided by
Bridgy, the maid. Patsy Devlin emerged from the bar.

“It’s the doctor’s young lady,” whispered Jimmy O’Loughlin.

“Is it, be damn? How do you know that?”

“Didn’t he often tell me,” said Jimmy, “that he was to be married to
a young lady out of Leeds or one of them towns beyond in England, and
that her name was Miss Blow? And didn’t I see it on her trunk, ‘Miss A.
M. Blow’? Would there be two in the world of the name?”

“And what would bring her down to Clonmore?”

“How would I know? Unless maybe she’s heard of the misfortunes that has
the doctor pretty near bet. She might have seen his name in the paper
when the judgment was gave against him.”

“She might; but if she did wouldn’t she keep away from him as far as
ever she could?”

“She would not,” said Jimmy O’Loughlin. “That’s not the sort she is. I
seen her and you didn’t.”

“I did.”

“Well, and if you did you might have known that she’d be the sort that
would come down after him the minute she got word of the trouble that
was on him. Believe you me, Patsy Devlin, that’s a fine girl.”

“She’s a good-looking one anyway,” said Patsy, “but mighty proud, I’d
say.”

“You may say that. I’d sooner she married the doctor than me, and
that’s the truth.”

“What’ll she do now,” said Patsy, “when she finds that the doctor’s
gone and left her?”

“It’ll be best,” said Jimmy, “if we keep it from her.”

“How can you keep it from her when the man’s gone? Won’t she be asking
to see him?”

“There’s ways of doing things. What would you say now if I was to tell
her that the doctor had gone off on a holiday for six weeks with the
permission of the Board of Guardians and that there’d have to be a
substitute appointed in his place? Would she be contented with that, do
you think?”

“She might,” said Patsy, “but she might not. She’d be wanting his
address anyway.”

“If she wanted it, it would be mighty hard to keep it from the like of
that one.”

“You haven’t got it to give, and so you can’t give it,” said Patsy.

Miss Blow came downstairs as he spoke and walked up to Jimmy O’Loughlin.

“Will you kindly have some luncheon ready for me,” she said, “at two
o’clock?”

“Certainly, miss, why not? Is there any particular thing that your
ladyship would fancy, such as a chop or the like?”

He reverted to the “ladyship” again, although he knew her name and
degree. The girl’s manner seemed to force him to. She deserved
something better than a mere “miss.”

“In the meanwhile will you be so good as to tell me where Dr. O’Grady
lives?”

“Is it Dr. O’Grady? Well, now, never a nicer gentleman there is about
the place, nor one that’s more thought of, or better liked than Dr.
O’Grady. It’s him that does be taking his dinner up at the Castle with
the old lord and attending to his duties to the poor the same as if he
was one of themselves. Many’s the time I’ve said to him: ‘Dr O’Grady,’
says I, ‘if anything was to take you away out of Clonmore, and I don’t
deny but what you ought to be in a less backward place, but if ever----
’”

“Will you be so good as to tell me where he lives?” said Miss Blow.

Patsy Devlin interposed at this point of the conversation with an air
of contempt for Jimmy O’Loughlin.

“Can’t you stop your talking,” he said, “and tell the lady where the
doctor lives?”

Jimmy cast a venomous glance at him.

“I will tell your ladyship to be sure. Why not? But it will be of no
use for you to go to call on him to-day. Patsy Devlin here is after
telling me this minute that he’s not at home.”

Miss Blow turned to Patsy.

“Do you know,” she asked, “when he’s likely to be back?”

“I do not, my lady. But I’d say it wouldn’t be for a couple of days
anyway.”

“A couple of days! Where has he gone to?”

“It’s what Mr. O’Loughlin there was just after telling me, your
ladyship, and he’s the Chairman of the Board of Guardians, that the
doctor did ask for leave to go on a holiday. But I wouldn’t say that
he’d be away for very long.”

“When did he ask for a holiday?” said Miss Blow to Jimmy O’Loughlin.

“It was Patsy Devlin told me,” said Jimmy; “and six weeks was the time
that he mentioned.”

Miss Blow turned again to Patsy Devlin; but he had vanished. Having
committed Jimmy O’Loughlin, as Chairman of the Board of Guardians, to
the fact of the doctor’s holiday, he slipped quietly into the bar.

“I don’t believe,” said Miss Blow, “that you’re telling me the truth.”

“He was not,” said Jimmy, sacrificing his friend with the utmost
promptitude. “It’s seldom he does that same. Devil the bigger liar,
begging your ladyship’s pardon for the word, devil the bigger liar
there is in Connacht than that same Patsy Devlin, and it’s what every
one that knows him would tell you.”

“I don’t,” said Miss Blow severely, “see very much to choose between
you and him.”

In England people have a great regard for the truth so long as it
does not interfere with business. Miss Blow expressed her scorn for
the two men who had tried to deceive her quite plainly both by her
words and the tone in which she spoke them. In Connacht truth is less
respected. Good manners and consideration for other people’s feelings
are looked upon as virtues superior to blunt accuracy of statement.
Jimmy O’Loughlin lied feebly, but he lied with the best intentions. He
wanted to spare Miss Blow the knowledge that her lover had deserted
her. In return she insulted him; but even under the sting of her words
he recollected that courtesy is due to every lady, especially to one as
good-looking as Miss Blow. It was not until she had turned her back on
him and left the hotel that he murmured under his breath--

“May the Lord help the poor doctor if it ever comes to his being
married by the like of her!”




CHAPTER V


Miss Blow came back for her luncheon, and then, asking no more help
or advice from Jimmy O’Loughlin, went out and made her way to Dr.
O’Grady’s house. It stood a few hundred yards from the village in the
middle of a small field. Miss Blow knocked and rang at the door, though
she had no real expectation of its being opened to her. She walked
round the house and peered in at the windows. The rooms on the ground
floor showed every sign of having been recently occupied by a person
of untidy habits. She reached the yard, surveyed the coach house and
the stable which had once sheltered a good horse. She tried the kitchen
door and found it bolted against her. The kitchen had a disused and
neglected appearance which puzzled her. She returned to the front of
the house and sat down on a stone to think out the position in which
she found herself.

Patsy Devlin, who had followed her from the hotel, watched her
proceedings from a distance with great interest. He afterwards made
a report to Jimmy O’Loughlin, a masterly report which interpreted
her actions, and added a picturesque touch at the end. Patsy Devlin
would have written good histories if fortune had made him a university
professor instead of a blacksmith.

“You’d have been sorry for the creature,” he said, “if you’d seen her
sitting there on a lump of a stone with the tears running down the two
cheeks of her the same as if you were after beating her with a stick.”

“I am sorry for her,” said Jimmy. “It’s herself has her own share of
trouble before her when she finds out that the doctor’s off to America
without so much as leaving word for her to go after him.”

It did not seem likely that Miss Blow would easily arrive at a
knowledge of the full extent of her misery. Biddy Halloran, the
rheumatic old lady who had waited long on the roadside for the doctor
in the morning, was still lurking near the house when Miss Blow reached
it. She, like Patsy Devlin, watched the examination of the premises
with deep interest. When Miss Blow sat down on the stone, Biddy
Halloran hobbled up to her.

“Is it the doctor you’re looking for?” she said. “For if it is, it’s
hardly ever you’ll see him again.”

Miss Blow was startled, and demanded an explanation of the words.
Biddy, who was slightly deaf, pretended to be very deaf indeed. Miss
Blow’s clear voice and determination of manner subdued her in the end.
She professed to be the only person in Clonmore who really knew what
had happened to the doctor.

“Holidays, is it?” she said, recollecting what Patsy Devlin had told
her, “no, nor work either. It’s to Dublin he’s gone, and it’s little
pleasure he’ll find there. Och, but he was a fine man and it’s a pity
of him!”

“Tell me at once,” said Miss Blow, “what he went to Dublin to do.”

“There was a lump in the inside of him,” said Biddy, “a gathering like;
and many’s the time he told me of that same. It was the size of a young
pullet’s egg, and you’d feel it lepping when you put your hand on it,
the same as it might be a trout. ‘Biddy, agra,’ he says, speaking to
me, as it might be to yourself or to some other young lady that would
be in it, instead of an old woman like myself, ‘medicine’s no good,’
says he, ‘but the knife is what’s wanted.’ ‘Would you not be afeared,’
I said, ‘to be trusting yourself to them murdering doctors up in
Dublin, and maybe a young lady somewhere that would be crying her eyes
out after you, and you dead?’ ‘I would not be afeared,’ says he--och,
but he was a fine man!--‘only I wouldn’t like the girl that’s to be
married to me to know,’ says he; ‘I’d be obliged to you if you’d keep
it from her,’ says he; ‘and what’s more, I’ll go to-morrow.’”

Miss Blow did not believe a word of it, but old Biddy Halloran reaped
her reward. Jimmy O’Loughlin, when the conversation was reported to
him, sent her a present of a bottle of patent medicine which had been
a long time in the shop and appeared to be unsaleable. It professed to
cure indigestion, and to free the system from uric acid if taken in
teaspoonfuls after meals. Biddy Halloran rubbed it into her knees and
felt her rheumatic pains greatly relieved.

Miss Blow sought and, after many inquiries, found the woman who had
acted as Dr. O’Grady’s house-keeper, and had basely deserted him in
the hour of his extremest need. She had taken refuge, as a temporary
lodger, with Patsy Devlin’s wife. It was understood that she would pay
for her board and lodging when her solicitor succeeded in recovering
the wages due to her. The news of the doctor’s flight had depressed
her. She felt that she was greatly wronged; but even when smarting from
her loss, she was not so heartless as to revenge herself by telling the
terrible truth to an innocent and beautiful creature like Miss Blow.
She gave it as her opinion that the doctor, driven to desperation,
perhaps almost starved, had poisoned himself. He had, she asserted,
bottles enough in his surgery to poison the whole country. His body,
she believed, was lying in the house behind the locked doors.

“If so be,” she added, “that the rats haven’t him ate; for the like of
that house with rats, I never seen. Many’s the time, when the doctor
would be out, I’ve sat the whole evening on the kitchen table, with my
legs tucked up under me, and them running across the floor the same as
hens would come to you when you’d be calling them. You couldn’t put
down a dish out of your hand, but they’d whip the bit off of it before
your eyes, without you’d have some sort of a cover to put over it.”

No one who was even slightly acquainted with Dr. O’Grady could suppose
him capable of suicide under any conceivable circumstances. Miss Blow,
who of course knew him well, was quite unimpressed by the housekeeper’s
horrible suggestion. But she realized that the truth, whatever it was,
was not to be reached by inquiries. Jimmy O’Loughlin and Patsy Devlin
lied to her. So did Biddy Halloran. So did the house-keeper. There was
evidently an organized conspiracy among the people of Clonmore for
the concealment of the truth. Miss Blow had a logical mind. It seemed
plain to her that if everybody agreed to tell lies the truth must be
something of a dangerous or uncomfortable kind. She had some knowledge
of Ireland, gleaned from the leading articles of English newspapers.
She knew, for instance, that it was a country of secret societies, of
midnight murders, of defeated justice, of lawlessness which scorned
the cloak of hypocrisy. She had heard of reigns of terror, emphasized
by the epithet “veritable.” She was firmly convinced that the lives
of respectable people were not safe on the west side of the Shannon.
Her father, Mr. Blow of the cigars, was an earnest politician, and at
election times his house was full of literature about Ireland which his
daughter read. Her experience of the people of Clonmore went far beyond
her worst expectations. She made up her mind that Dr. O’Grady had been
murdered; that everybody in the place knew the fact; and that, either
through fear or an innate fondness for crime, no one would help to
bring the murderers to justice.

It is very much to her credit that she did not take the next train
home; for she must have thought that her own life was in great danger.
But she was a young woman of determination and courage. She made up her
mind to discover and bring to the scaffold the men who had done away
with Dr. O’Grady. Her suspicions fastened, in the first instance, on
Jimmy O’Loughlin and Patsy Devlin.

“Mr. O’Loughlin,” she said, when she returned to the hotel after her
interview with the housekeeper, “kindly tell me who is the nearest
magistrate.”

“You haven’t far to go to look for a magistrate, miss, if that’s all
you want. I’m one myself.”

“I don’t believe you,” said Miss Blow, rudely.

“Maybe not,” said Jimmy; “but I’m telling you the truth for all that.
Let you go into the Petty Sessions Court to-morrow, and see if I’m not
sitting there on the bench; with the police and Mr. Goddard himself,
that’s the officer, if he happens to be over from Ballymoy, doing what
I bid them, be that same agreeable to them or not; and oftener it’s
not, for them police think a lot of themselves. When you see me there
administering the law you’ll be sorry for what you’re after saying.
It’s the Chairman of the Urban District Council I am, and an ex-officio
magistrate, thanks be to God.”

“Is there any other magistrate in the neighbourhood?”

“There is not; for the R. M. lives away off at Ballymoy, and that’s
better than twelve miles from this. There’s ne’er another, only myself
and Lord Manton up at the Castle, and he never sits on the bench from
one year’s end to another, unless maybe there’s a job on that he’d like
to have his finger in.”

The title produced its effect on Miss Blow. Earls are much less common
in the industrial districts of England than they are in Ireland.
The statistics have never been exactly worked out, but there can be
little doubt that there are far more earls to every thousand common
men in Ireland than in any other part of the three kingdoms. This is
not because governments are more generous to the Irish in the matter
of titles. The explanation is to be found in the fact that untitled
people in Ireland tend to disappear, thinned out by famine, emigration,
and various diseases, while the earls survive. In England it is the
noblemen who die away, being, as every reader of popular English
novels knows, a degraded set of men, addicted to frightful vices,
whereas the working men and the great middle class increase rapidly,
their morality being of a very superior kind. Curiously enough, the
English, though perfectly aware of the facts, respect their debauched
earls greatly, on account, it may be supposed, of their rarity. The
Irish, on the other hand, think very little of an earl, regard him as
in many respects similar to an ordinary man; earls being, as has been
said, comparatively common in Ireland. Miss Blow, who had never to her
knowledge seen an earl, brightened up at the mention of Lord Manton.

“I’ll go up to the Castle,” she said, “and see him to-morrow morning.”

Jimmy O’Loughlin sent a message to Patsy Devlin, asking him to call
at the hotel that evening. The fact that he had not been elected
inspector of sheep dipping still rankled in Patsy’s mind. He blamed
Jimmy O’Loughlin more than any one else for his rejection. He made up
his mind to obey the summons, but not to be seduced from the path of
righteous wrath by porter or whisky. He would refuse contemptuously to
oblige Jimmy in any way.

He was received in Jimmy O’Loughlin’s private office, a small room
at the back of the hotel, which looked out on the yard. The walls
were adorned with two pictures, enlarged photographs of eminent
ecclesiastics with small eyes and puffy cheeks. The table was mahogany
and was covered with circular stains of various sizes. There was a
sideboard with a very dilapidated cruet-stand and two teapots on it.
The chairs were all rickety. A writing-desk, which stood under the
window, was littered with a number of exceedingly dirty papers. On the
table in the middle of the room, by way of preparation for Patsy’s
visit, were arranged a jug of porter, a bottle of whisky, a water
croft, and several tumblers.

“Fill your glass,” said Jimmy hospitably, “and light your pipe. You can
start on the porter, and finish up with the spirits.”

Patsy poured out the porter suspiciously, and drank a tumbler full
without any sign of appreciation.

“There isn’t one about the place,” said Jimmy, “that’s better
acquainted with the old earl up at the Castle than yourself. He thinks
a deal of you, and well he may.”

“He gave me a letter,” said Patsy, “at the time of the election. But
it’s little heed you or the rest of them paid to it.”

Jimmy was anxious to avoid the subject of the election.

“I’m told,” he said, “that whatever you might ask of him, he’d do.”

Patsy was susceptible to flattery of this kind.

“He always thought a deal of me and my father before me,” he said.
“You could tell the opinion he had of me by the letter he wrote. And
why wouldn’t he when either my father or myself put the shoes on every
horse that’s come and gone from the Castle this fifty years.”

“I could tell what he thought of you,” said Jimmy. “Sure anybody could.”

“You could tell it, if so be you read the letter.”

“The doctor’s young lady,” said Jimmy, “is going up to see the earl
to-morrow. The Lord save her! but she’s half distracted with grief this
minute.”

“And what good will going to the Castle do her? Sure he doesn’t know
where the doctor is no more than another.”

“He might tell her the truth,” said Jimmy.

“Be damn! but he might, not knowing.”

“And if he did, the girl’s heart would be broke.”

“It would surely.”

“We’ve kept it from her,” said Jimmy, “and may the Lord forgive us for
the lies we’re after telling, fresh ones every hour of the day. And if
so be that now, at the latter end, she hears how the doctor has gone
and left her it’ll go through her terrible, worse than the influenza.”

“And what would you consider would be best to be done?” asked Patsy.

“I was thinking that maybe, if you was to see him to-morrow, early,
before ever she gets at him with her questions, and if you were to give
him the word, that it might be, coming from a man like yourself that he
has a respect for, that he’d hold off from telling her.”

“He might.”

“And will you do it, Patsy Devlin? Will you do it for the sake of the
fine young girl that’s upstairs, this minute, heart scalded with the
sorrow that’s on her?”

“It’s little you deserve the like from me,” said Patsy, “you nor the
rest of the Guardians. But I’ll do it for the sake of the girl.”

“I knew you would,” said Jimmy. “It’s a good heart you have in you,
Patsy Devlin, and a feeling for them that’s in distress. But the
porter’s finished. Will I draw you another jug of the same, or will you
try the whisky for a change?”

Patsy indicated the whisky bottle with his thumb. He remained lost in
deep thought while the cork was drawn and a considerable quantity of
the spirit poured into the tumbler before him. Indeed, so complete was
his abstraction that the glass might have been absolutely filled with
undiluted whisky if Jimmy had not, of his own accord, stayed the flow
of it.

“I’m collecting the town and the neighbourhood,” said Patsy, “for the
sports, and there’s no reason that I can see why I shouldn’t call on
his lordship to-morrow and ask for a subscription.”

“You might.”

“And in the course of conversation I could draw down about the doctor
and the young lady and give him the word.”

“Take care now would she be beforehand with you, if so be you were a
bit late in going.”

“Let you see to that,” said Patsy.

“I might try,” said Jimmy; “but she’s that headstrong and determined
it’s hard to stop her once she takes the notion into her head.”

“Be damn!” said Patsy, “but however you manage you’ll have to stop her.
The old earl doesn’t have his breakfast took till near ten o’clock, and
if I was to try to see him before half-past ten, he’d eat the face off
me.”

“I’ll do the best I can,” said Jimmy. “I’ll tell Bridgy to have the
breakfast late on her. She does be wanting it at half-past eight.”

“Let her want. If she gets it by half-past nine itself oughtn’t she to
be content? There’s many a house where she wouldn’t get it then.”

“Content or not,” said Jimmy heroically, “it’s at half-past nine she’ll
have it to-morrow anyway.”

“And after that,” said Patsy, “it could be that the horse might be lame
the way she’d have to walk.”

“It could.”

“And if you sent her round by the big gate,” said Patsy, “it would put
a couple of miles on her beyond what she’d have to walk if she was to
go up through the deer park.”

“It would,” said Jimmy; “but the talk she’ll give after will be
terrible to listen to.”

“Don’t tell me. A young lady like her wouldn’t know how to curse.”

“It’s not cursing,” said Jimmy, “but it’s a way she has of speaking
that would make you feel as if the rats beyond in the haggard was
Christians compared to you.”

“Let her talk.”

“And she looks at you straight in the face,” said Jimmy, “the same as
if she was trying to see what would be in the inside of your head, and
feeling middling sure all the time that there wasn’t much in it, beyond
the sweepings of the street.”

“It’s for her own good you’re doing it,” said Patsy.

There was some consolation in the thought. But Patsy, even while making
the suggestion, felt that a good conscience is not always a sufficient
support in well-doing.

“You might,” he added, “be out about the place and let herself talk to
her till the worst of it was over.”

This plan, which perhaps would not have suited Mrs. O’Loughlin,
commended itself to Jimmy; but it did not make him altogether
comfortable about the future.

“I might,” he said, “and I will, but she’ll get me for sure at the
latter end.”

If he had done as his conscience suggested, Patsy Devlin would have
gone home at once after settling Miss Blow’s business for her. But the
whisky bottle was still more than half full, and it seemed to him a
pity to break up a pleasant party at an early hour. He started a fresh
subject of conversation, one that he hoped would be interesting to his
host.

“Tell me this now,” he said. “Do you think that fellow down at
Rosivera, the same that brought the pianos along with him, would give a
subscription to the sports?”

“I don’t know,” said Jimmy. “He’s queer. I never set eyes upon him
myself since I finished carting the packing-cases down to Rosivera.”

“They tell me that he does be calling at your shop for his bread and
the like, and leaving a power of money with you.”

“I wouldn’t say he left so much at all,” said Jimmy cautiously. “And
anyway it’s a servant that did be coming every day till to-day, and
then it was some sort of a foreigner with a written order, him not
being able to speak English.”

“Would you see your way to asking him for a subscription?”

“How would I do it, when he can’t know a word I say to him, nor him to
me? Why won’t you talk sense?”

“And where’s the man himself, and the fellow that did speak English?”

“How would I know? If it’s a subscription you want from him, you’d
better go over to Rosivera and ask for it.”

“They say,” said Patsy thoughtfully, “that he has plenty to give. A
man like that with a motor car running on the road every day, and two
foreign gentlemen, let alone an Englishman, to wait on him, must have a
power of money. I wouldn’t wonder now, if I took him the right way, but
he’d give five pounds. I might drop him a hint that five pounds is the
least that any of the gentry would give to the sports.”

“Let you see what you can get out of him,” said Jimmy, “and the more
the better.”

Jimmy had got all he wanted out of Patsy Devlin. He did not care very
much whether Mr. Red subscribed to the sports or not. He took the
whisky bottle and drove the cork home into its neck with a blow of his
fist. Patsy looked regretfully at it, but he was a man of self-respect.
He would neither ask for, nor hint that he wanted, a drink which his
host did not seem inclined to offer him freely. He realized what the
decisive blow given to the cork meant. There would be no more whisky
for him unless he chose to go out to the bar and pay for it there in
the usual way. This he was unwilling to do. Later on in the month,
when the collection for the sports was complete, he might be in a
position to spend lavishly; but for the present he felt it necessary to
economize.

“It’ll be off with me,” he said. “It’ll be best, seeing I have to be
up at the Castle early to-morrow. Later on in the day I might be going
over to Rosivera to see what’s to be got out of the man that’s there.
If he’s as rich as you’re after telling me he’ll never miss a pound, or
for the matter of that five pound. I’ll have a try at him anyway.”




CHAPTER VI


“Is there any news of the doctor?” asked Lord Manton.

He was standing on the steps outside the door of Clonmore Castle.
He had just given Patsy Devlin a sovereign for the Horse Races and
Athletic Sports, and was endeavouring to cut short the thanks with
which the subscription was received.

“There is not, your lordship, devil the word; and why would there? It
could be that he’s on the sea by this time, and, anyway, why would he
be wanting to tell us where he is? Isn’t it enough of their persecuting
he had without going out of his way to ask for more?”

Lord Manton, like everybody else, regarded Dr. O’Grady’s flight to
America as the natural result of his financial embarrassment. He was
sorry; but he recognized that the doctor had taken the wisest course.

“Might I be speaking a word to your lordship about the doctor?”

“Certainly, Patsy.”

“It’s what Jimmy O’Loughlin was saying to me that there’d be no need,
if your lordship was agreeable to the same, to be telling the young
lady the way the doctor is gone off and left her without a word. She
has trouble enough, the creature, without that.”

“What young lady?”

“Be damn!” said Patsy hurriedly, “if there isn’t herself coming up the
avenue. It wouldn’t do for her to see me talking to your lordship. I’d
better be going before she’s on top of us.”

Patsy Devlin slipped round the corner of the Castle, and dodging
through a plantation of laurels, made his way to the stable-yard.
Lord Manton was left to watch the approach of Miss Blow, without any
very clear idea of what she was likely to want of him; or how Jimmy
O’Loughlin and Patsy Devlin expected to keep the doctor’s flight a
secret from her. He observed with pleasure that she was more than
commonly good-looking, that she carried herself well, and wore clothes
which set off a fine figure. He had heard from Dr. O’Grady of the
daughter of the Leeds tobacconist, and had formed a mental picture of
her which in no way corresponded to the young lady who approached him.
He reflected that she was probably in deep distress, and he looked
forward with some pleasure to an interview in the course of which she
was almost certain to cry. He had no objection to playing the part of
comforter to a charming girl. His face expressed fatherly benignity
when Miss Blow reached him.

“Am I addressing Lord Manton?” she asked.

“Certainly. Is there anything I can do for you?”

He almost added the words “my dear,” but there was a look in Miss
Blow’s fine eyes which checked him. He decided that paternal affection
would come in more appropriately after she began to cry.

“I am Miss Blow,” she said.

“Come in,” said Lord Manton, “come in. You must be tired after your
walk. Let me lead the way into the library. I have often heard of you
from my friend Dr. O’Grady, and if there is anything I can do to help
you I shall be most happy to do it.”

He set Miss Blow in a deep chair near the window, pulled over another
chair for himself, and sat down beside her.

“I am entirely at your service,” he said. “It will be a pleasure to me
to give any help in my power to a charming young lady. I----”

Miss Blow’s eyes warned him again. There was a hard glitter in them
very little suggestive of tears. He stopped abruptly.

“I understand that you are a magistrate,” she said.

Lord Manton bowed. Then he sat up straight in his chair and tried to
express in his attitude a proper judicial solemnity.

“I want,” said Miss Blow, “to have Dr. O’Grady found at once.”

“A very natural and a very proper wish,” said Lord Manton. “I am in
entire sympathy with you. I should like very much to find Dr. O’Grady.
But----”

“Dead or alive,” said Miss Blow firmly.

“My dear Miss Blow!” The “my dear” came quite naturally to his lips
this time. The words expressed sheer astonishment. There was no
suggestion of affection, paternal or other, in the way he uttered them.

“Dead or alive,” said Miss Blow again.

“Don’t make such horrible suggestions, Miss Blow. I assure you there’s
not the slightest reason for supposing that Dr. O’Grady is anything but
alive and well.”

“Then where is he?” Miss Blow spoke sharply, incisively. Lord Manton
began to think that she must be some new kind of girl, quite outside of
his experience, one who felt more indignation than sorrow at the loss
of her lover.

“I understand,” he said, “that he is absent from home, temporarily
absent. I have no doubt----”

Miss Blow rose from her chair and took up her umbrella.

“You’re like all the rest,” she said. “You are as bad as the
hotel-keeper and his friend. You are simply trying to put me off with
lies. Good morning.”

“Wait a moment. Please do not hurry away. I am not like all the rest,
really. I assure you I’m,--compared to Patsy Devlin, for instance,--I’m
a miserably inefficient liar. Please sit down again.”

Miss Blow allowed herself to be persuaded.

“Tell me the truth,” she said; “and then find his body.”

“The truth,” said Lord Manton, “is painful--very painful. But it’s not
so bad as that. Dr. O’Grady has been for some time past in a position
of considerable pecuniary embarrassment.”

“He was up to his neck in debt,” said Miss Blow bluntly. “I know that.
That’s what brought me here. And now I find he’s gone.”

There was just a hint of a break in her voice as she spoke the last
words. Lord Manton thought that tears were at last imminent. He felt
more at his ease, and ventured to take her hand in his and to stroke it
gently. She snatched it from him.

“You’re worse than the others,” she said. “How dare you?”

For a moment Lord Manton thought that she was going to box his ears. He
drew away from her hurriedly and attempted an apology.

“I am sincerely sorry,” he said. “For the moment I forgot that you
were not my daughter. She always came to me with her troubles ever
since she was quite a child. I got into the way of taking her hand----”

“Never mind about my hand. Tell me the truth about Dr. O’Grady.”

Lord Manton saw that she was mollified. To be mistaken for the daughter
of an earl is a soothing thing under any circumstances. He thought
for an instant of trying to repossess himself of her hand; but Miss
Blow’s eyes, though no longer passionate, were steely. He felt himself
aggrieved, and spoke with brutal directness.

“To put the matter plainly,” he said, “Dr. O’Grady has run away from
his creditors.”

“I don’t believe a word of it,” said Miss Blow.

“I have no doubt that he intended to let you know where he was going.
I expect he wants you to go after him and join him there--make a fresh
start, you know, in the New World, and build up a happy home, where the
miserable past may be forgotten. That’s what he means. I’m convinced
of it. Only he had to leave this rather hurriedly in the middle of the
night. But don’t be despondent, Miss Blow; you’ll get a letter from him
soon.”

“That’s all nonsense,” said Miss Blow. “He’s done nothing of the sort.”

“But, my dear young lady, how can you possibly speak so confidently?
He’s not the first man who has run away under such circumstances.
Plenty of people do it, I assure you. It’s not even considered
disgraceful.”

“I know he didn’t.”

“But how do you know?”

“Because I wrote to him a week ago, when I first heard he was in
trouble, and told him I was coming over here to see him. I said that
father would help him out of his difficulties, whatever they were. Do
you think that, after that, he’d run away and not so much as tell me he
was going?”

Lord Manton did not know what to think. Dr. O’Grady had disappeared.
There was no getting out of that. It was a patent fact. On the other
hand, if Mr. Blow had really offered to pay the doctor’s debts, there
seemed to be no reason why he should disappear. No doubt the wealthy
proprietor of the well-known twopenny Beauties could afford to pay Mr.
Lorraine Vavasour’s bill twenty times over if necessary. Still, Dr.
O’Grady had disappeared.

“You are all,” said Miss Blow passionately, “a lot of slanderous
busy-bodies, telling lies and meddling with everybody’s business
because you have no business of your own to attend to. My poor Lucius
has been murdered among you, and now not one of you will help me to get
at the truth; but I’ll do it in spite of you.”

Lord Manton looked at her. She was undeniably handsome; handsomer than
ever now that she was in a rage. It occurred to him suddenly that Dr.
O’Grady might have a reason for disappearing, quite unconnected with
the money he owed. He was engaged to be married to Miss Blow. It was
possible that the idea of home life with this masterful and passionate
young woman for a partner might be rather terrifying. Besides, the
wife who pays her husband’s debts for him has a hold over him ever
afterwards; and Miss Blow seemed exactly the kind of lady who would
take advantage of such a position. She would certainly make him aware
of the fact. Lord Manton thought he understood at last why Dr. O’Grady
had run away. Miss Blow’s face was buried in her handkerchief. She
was not crying, but she was flushed after her outburst, and preferred
to keep her face covered. Lord Manton ventured on a smile and a gentle
chuckle.

“I assure you,” he said soothingly, “that he hasn’t been murdered.
Who would murder him? Everybody in the neighbourhood was fond of him.
I don’t think there was a man, woman, or child but loved him. I did
myself.”

“If you loved him,” said Miss Blow, “show it now.”

“I will, with pleasure; but how?”

“Give me a search warrant.”

“A search warrant! But----”

“Yes, a search warrant; and I shall insist upon the police executing
it.”

“I haven’t the least doubt you will; but--but what do you mean to
search?”

“Every house in the neighbourhood. Every house until I find him.”

“But he isn’t in a house. Do try to be reasonable, Miss Blow. Even
if he’s murdered--and I’m quite sure he’s not--he wouldn’t be in a
house. His body would be hidden in a wood or a bog-hole or a river, or
wherever it is that murderers usually do hide bodies.”

“You admit then that he has been murdered.”

“No, I don’t. You mustn’t catch up my words like that. All I said was
that, if he had been murdered, he wouldn’t be living in a house, and
so a search warrant wouldn’t be any use to you. You don’t really want
a warrant at all. You don’t even want the police. All you have to do
is to go prowling round the country, poking into any shadowy-looking
hole you see with the point of your umbrella until you come across his
body.”

The interview was beginning to tire Lord Manton. He was not accustomed
to being bullied by handsome girls, and he did not like it.

“Perhaps you’d like to start at once,” he said politely.

“It’s impossible,” she said, “for me to search the country by myself.”

“Not at all. Nothing is impossible for a young lady of your energy.
Start with the wood behind this house; it’s very thick in parts, quite
a likely spot for a corpse; and come in here for lunch when you’ve
finished.”

“Give me a written order to the police,” said Miss Blow, “commanding
them to aid me in my search.”

“It wouldn’t be the least use to you, I assure you. You’ve no idea what
independent people the police are. An order from me would simply put
their backs up and make them determined not to help you.”

“Give me the order, and I’ll see that they execute it.”

“My dear Miss Blow, I can’t, I really can’t. Try the Chief Secretary.
You’ll find him in his office at Dublin Castle. He’s a most agreeable
man. You needn’t be the least bit afraid of him. Not that it’s likely
you would be. He’s much more likely to be afraid of you. It won’t take
you long. You can run up by the night mail and----”

“Give me the order.”

Lord Manton surrendered. He crossed the room, sat down at his desk, and
wrote--

“Sergeant Farrelly, R.I.C. Kindly give all the assistance in your power
to Miss Blow, the bearer of this note, who wishes to search the country
for a dead body.--MANTON.”

“If that is any use to you,” he said, “you’re welcome to it. Let me
know how you get on. Any time you happen to find yourself near this
house, drop in for luncheon or tea. Good-bye.”

Miss Blow rose, bowed, and left the room. Lord Manton rang the bell.

“Wilkins,” he said to his butler.

“Yes, my lord.”

“You saw that young lady who left the house just now? Very well, if
she calls again and I happen to be out, you are to give her breakfast,
luncheon, tea or dinner according to the hour of the day. If I happen
to be at home you are to stay in the room during the time she is with
me, as a chaperone. You understand, Wilkins?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“She doesn’t require a chaperone, but I do. I don’t feel safe when
I’m alone with her. And Wilkins, if she brings a corpse along with
her, either Dr. O’Grady’s corpse or any other, you will provide proper
accommodation for it. Put it on the table in the servants’ hall with a
sheet over it, and send out to the garden for flowers--white flowers.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“One thing more, Wilkins; if Sergeant Farrelly or any policeman comes
up here from the barracks either to-day or to-morrow and asks to see
me, tell him I’m out, and that it won’t be the least use his waiting
because I won’t be in before midnight and probably not then.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Wilkins left the room, and Lord Manton, taking the chair in which Miss
Blow had been sitting, lit a cigarette. There was a stealthy step on
the gravel outside. He looked up and saw Patsy Devlin’s face pressed
against the window. He rose, opened the window, and asked Patsy what
he wanted.

“Might I be so bold as to put a question to your lordship?”

“Is it about Miss Blow or Dr. O’Grady?”

“It is,” said Patsy. “It’s about the both of them.”

“Out with it, then. That young woman and her relations with the doctor
form quite the most interesting subject I know at present.”

“Did your lordship keep the truth from her?”

“I did my best not to, Patsy; but I think I may safely say that I did.”

Patsy pondered this saying. The meaning was not immediately obvious to
him.

“It’s what Jimmy O’Loughlin was saying to me last night,” he said,
“that if so be she heard that the doctor had left her, the creature’s
heart would be broke, and her as handsome a young girl as any you’d
see.”

“At the present moment,” said Lord Manton, “she believes that you and
Jimmy O’Loughlin have murdered the doctor and concealed his body in a
bog hole.”

“The Lord save us and deliver us! Was there ne’er another story you
could tell her only that? Sure the police will be out after us.”

“She went straight from this house to the barracks,” said Lord Manton,
“and I shouldn’t wonder if you were arrested before night.”

“Be damn!” said Patsy, “saving your lordship’s presence; but they
couldn’t take me for the like of that. There isn’t one in the country
but knows that I wouldn’t lay a hand on the doctor, drunk or sober, not
if it was to save my soul.”

“Don’t you be too sure,” said Lord Manton. “My own belief is that if
Miss Blow doesn’t come across the doctor in the course of the next
twenty-four hours, she’ll have you hanged for murdering him.”

“It’s joking you are. She couldn’t do it.”

“I am not joking. I defy any man to joke after spending half an hour
with Miss Blow. She is the most determined young woman I ever met. She
could do anything, absolutely anything. There isn’t a judge or a jury
could stand out against her for an hour. If I were you, Patsy, I’d make
a bolt for it and join the doctor in America. Your life’s not safe in
this country. I expect by this time you have as much collected for the
sports as would pay your passage out.”

“I have,” said Patsy; “but I’ll not go. I’ll stand my trial, if it
comes to that, sooner than have people saying it of me that I ever laid
a hand on the doctor.”

“It’s all very fine talking that way, but you won’t feel at all so
confident when you see the judge putting on the black cap; and a little
later on, when the rope’s round your neck, you’ll be sorry you didn’t
take my advice. The thing for you to do is to skip while you’ve time.
It’ll take Miss Blow a good while to persuade the police to arrest you,
but she’ll do it in the end.”




CHAPTER VII


A poet, writing, as some of them will, a parody on the work of another
poet, has these words--

  “To every Irishman on earth
   Arrest comes soon or late.”

Patsy Devlin did not read much poetry, and had never come across the
lines. If he had met them, he would have recognized at once that they
express a great truth. His experience of life convinced him that
the law in Ireland, though erratic in its methods, may be relied on
in the end to get the upper hand of either daring or innocence. The
proceedings of the police, depending as they do on the view which
some complete stranger has promised his constituents in England to
take of Irish affairs, are quite incalculable. Patsy himself had been
praised by political orators, had been favourably mentioned by eminent
statesmen in the House of Commons itself, for actions which he would
have kept concealed if he could. What seemed to him to be serious
misdemeanours, if not actual crimes, had more than once turned out to
be virtuous deeds. It seemed likely, therefore, that the law might
occasionally regard entire innocence as highly culpable. He would
have been indignant, but he would not have been greatly surprised,
if the Government, that remote deity from which there is no appeal,
had decreed his arrest, trial, and execution for the murder of Dr.
O’Grady. Patsy reasoned the matter out with himself. If, he thought,
a man is not punished for the crimes he does commit, it is probable
that he will be punished for those he has avoided committing. This
consideration, coming on top of Lord Manton’s friendly warning, made
him uneasy. He determined to keep clear of the police barrack when he
left Clonmore Castle.

Rosivera is a remote and lonely spot. It was extremely improbable that
there would be any police lurking near it. It was not the sort of
place to which a police sergeant would think of going if he were bent
on the arrest of a murderous blacksmith. Patsy felt that he might,
without running any undue risk, venture on a visit to Mr. Red. He was
not willing to forego the chance of getting an additional subscription
to the sports fund. He had in his pocket money enough to take him to
America, but another pound, two pounds, perhaps even five pounds, would
be very welcome to him. He was a good man, with a tender heart and a
strong sense of his duty to those dependent on him. He wanted to be
in a position to make some provision for the support of his wife and
family when he left them. Mr. Red’s subscription, if Mr. Red turned out
to be a generous man, would enable him to leave Mrs. Devlin and the
children comfortably provided for.

He went to Rosivera by a circuitous route, avoiding the public roads as
much as possible, walking over fields and finally along the sea-shore.
When he came in sight of the house, he reconnoitred it carefully, and
approached it very much as a skilful scout might advance on an enemy’s
camp, availing himself of all the cover which the country afforded.
Satisfied at last that there was no police patrol in the neighbourhood,
he made a circuit of the house, and finally reached the yard gate
by way of the kitchen garden. He entered the yard and made sure that
there was no one in it. He peeped into the stable and the cow-house and
found that they were both empty. He opened the door of the coach-house
and took a long look at the motor car which stood there. It was well
cleaned; its lamps and other metalwork shone brilliantly; it was a very
handsome vehicle. Patsy felt reassured. Mr. Red might be eccentric,
as Jimmy O’Loughlin hinted, might even be vicious, but he was
unquestionably opulent. No one but a rich man could keep such a motor
car. Patsy closed the coach-house door quietly and took a long look at
the back windows of the house. They were all shut and veiled with drawn
blinds; all of them, except one small window in the top storey. It was
wide open. Patsy stared at it.

Suddenly, something flew from the window and dropped at Patsy’s feet.
It was a pellet of paper. Patsy looked round him cautiously and then
stooped down and picked it up. He unwrapped the paper and discovered
that it contained a small piece of china, apparently a fragment of a
broken saucer. He put this into his waistcoat pocket and examined the
paper in which it had been wrapped. He discovered a few words on it
scribbled in pencil--

“Come back into the yard in twenty minutes. Don’t wait
now.--O’GRADY.”

“Be damn,” said Patsy softly, “it’s the doctor himself!”

Being a man of high intelligence, with a natural taste for conspiracy,
he acted in the wisest possible way. Without the smallest display of
emotion, or a single glance at the window from which the communication
had come, he turned and slouched carelessly towards the yard gate.
It was flung open before he reached it, and Mr. Red, a revolver in
his hand, strode forward. Patsy displayed great presence of mind and
resource.

“I’m just after knocking at the back door, your honour,” he said,
“thinking that it might be more agreeable if I didn’t go round to the
front, where maybe you’d be entertaining company. It was that I was
collecting a trifle from the gentry round about for the grand annual
horse races and athletic sports that does be held every year up beyond
in Jimmy O’Loughlin’s big field. And the committee would feel pleased,
your honour, if you’d act as a vice-president or a starter, or the
like, along with Lord Manton from the Castle.”

Mr. Red raised the revolver and pointed it at Patsy’s head.

“Hand me that note,” he said.

“Sure your honour’s joking. What would a poor man like me be doing with
a note? If you’re the gentleman they say you are, it’s yourself will be
giving a note to me, and maybe a five-pound note, for the sports.”

Mr. Red took four steps forward, and stood so that Patsy had every
opportunity of looking into the barrel of the revolver.

“Right about turn,” he said; “march!”

“I was in the militia one time,” said Patsy, “and I know well what
you’re saying. If it’s into the house you want me to go through the
back door, I’m willing. But there’s no need for you to be looking at me
that way or to be reaching out at me with your pistol. If you think I’m
here trying to steal a motor car on you, you’re making a big mistake.
Anybody can tell you that I wouldn’t do the like. If I wanted to itself
I wouldn’t be able. I couldn’t drive one of them things no more than
fly.”

“March!” said Mr. Red.

He held the revolver within a couple of inches of Patsy’s head.

“A gentleman like yourself,” said Patsy, “likes his bit of a joke. I
know well it’s only funning you are and that it’s not loaded; but I’d
be obliged to you if you’d point it the other way. Them things goes off
sometimes when you’re not expecting them.”

By way of demonstrating that it was loaded, and that he was not
“funning,” Mr. Red fired a shot. The bullet went quite close to Patsy’s
head and buried itself in the kitchen door. Patsy, convinced that he
had to do with a dangerous lunatic, turned quickly and walked into the
kitchen. From the kitchen he was forced, at the point of the revolver,
up several flights of stairs. He was bidden to halt at last opposite a
door. Mr. Red produced the key from his pocket, and, still keeping the
revolver levelled at Patsy, opened the door.

“Enter,” he said.

“Be damn! but I will, and I’ll be all the better pleased if you’ll stay
outside yourself.”

This was exactly what Mr. Red did. The door was locked again, and Patsy
found himself face to face with Dr. O’Grady.

“I’m sorry,” said the doctor; “I’m infernally sorry. I was an ass to
throw you out that note. I might have known that the Field Marshal
would be spying round somewhere. It’s just the kind of absolutely
idiotic thing he does rather well.”

“You needn’t be sorry at all. Now that I know I’m not shot, I’d as soon
be here as anywhere else.”

“Would you? I’m glad you’re satisfied. All the same I wish you were out
of it. Now that there are two of us here, the police are bound to come
after us and find us.”

“They’re out after me, anyway,” said Patsy. “That’s why I say I’d as
soon be here as anywhere else.”

“And what do they want you for? Is it any of your League work?”

“It is not. It’s nothing to do with the League, good or bad. It’s for
murdering you and concealing your body after.”

“Can’t you talk sense, Patsy Devlin?”

“It’s the truth I’m telling you, and I couldn’t say different if I was
put on my oath this minute.”

“But, damn it all, I’m not murdered; I’m alive.”

“That may be,” said Patsy. “All I know is that Lord Manton’s after
telling the young lady that you are murdered; and what’s more, he said
it was Jimmy O’Loughlin and myself that done it.”

“Tell me the truth now, Patsy. Is Miss Blow in Clonmore?”

“She is.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“I am sure. She came the day after you went to America. Why wouldn’t I
be sure when she has the whole of us riz ever since with the questions
she did be asking about you; and not one in the place but told her
lies, be the same more or less, for fear the creature would break her
heart if she heard what you were after doing. And at the latter end
his lordship told her we had murdered you, to quiet her like, for fear
she might hear that you had gone to America, leaving her behind you,
without ever a word to her, good nor bad.”

“Good God, man! But I haven’t gone to America.”

“I see that well enough now. But tell me this, doctor, why didn’t you
send us word, so as we’d know what to say to her?”

“I couldn’t. The first chance I got was when I dropped that note out of
the window to you. If you’d come back to the yard the way I told you,
I’d have had a letter written to Jimmy O’Loughlin that you could have
taken back with you. I’d have explained the whole situation.”

“I was meaning to come back just as you bid me. Wasn’t I walking out
of the yard quiet and easy, so as I’d be able to come back at the end
of half an hour or thereabouts, when that murdering villain came at me
with a pistol and went very near shooting me dead?”

“I’ll tell you what it is, Patsy. The sooner you’re out of this the
better. There’s not the least difficulty about escaping. The Field
Marshal thinks he’s a tremendous swell at conspiracies of all sorts;
but as a matter of fact he’s a perfect fool, and I have the lock
loosened on the door this minute. You can walk out any time you like;
and the best time in my opinion will be to-night.”

“And why wouldn’t you go yourself, doctor, if it’s as easy as all that?”

“I don’t want to go,” said the doctor. “I’m very well contented where I
am. It’s much better for you to go.”

“How would it do if the both of us went?”

“It wouldn’t do at all. I tell you I want to stay. I don’t want to
escape. But you must. I don’t want the police here searching for me.”

“Be damn, then, but I won’t go either! As sure as ever I went they’d
have me hanged for murdering you and that wouldn’t suit me at all.”

“Don’t be a fool, Patsy. How can they hang you for murdering me when
I’m alive?”

“But--but--without I’d bring them here to see you they’d never believe
that you weren’t dead. What with the young lady going round the country
cursing like mad at them that killed you, and the old lord telling the
police it was me and Jimmy O’Loughlin done it, what chance would a poor
man like myself have against them? They’d have me hanged, I’m telling
you.”

“I’ll give you two notes,” said Dr. O’Grady; “one to Lord Manton, and
one to Jimmy O’Loughlin, and between the three of you it’ll be a queer
thing if you can’t keep the police quiet and stop all this silly rot
about my being murdered.”

“Will you give me a writing to the young lady herself?”

“I will not. I know very well what she’d do if she heard I was here.
She’d come straight down after me.”

“I’m not saying but what she might. From what I seen of her I’d say
she’s just the sort of a young lady that would.”

“Well, then, can’t you understand that the last thing in the world I
want is for her to know where I am? If I could have got a note to her
at the first go off, before she came to Clonmore, it would have been
all right. I’d have told her that I was detained here in attendance
on an important case, and that she was to stay at home and not come
near Clonmore till I sent her word. But that silly old ass of a Field
Marshal thought he knew better than I did how to deal with a girl, and
he wouldn’t let me send the note. Then you and Jimmy O’Loughlin and
Lord Manton, and I suppose every soul about the place, go stuffing her
up with a pack of lies until----”

“Be damn, doctor! but that’s a hard word. What we did was for the best.
You wouldn’t have us tell the creature the truth, and her thinking all
the time that you’d rather die than desert her?”

“Tell her the truth! What truth?”

“That you were off to America so as you wouldn’t have to pay Jimmy
O’Loughlin what you owed him.”

“But--oh, damn it all, Patsy, what a fool you are! That’s not the
truth. Can’t you see that it’s not the truth? Will I be obliged to
leave a mark on your ugly face with my fist to prove to you that I’m
not in America?”

“It was all the truth we had for her, anyway. But we wouldn’t tell her.
And why not? Because she was a fine girl, and we didn’t want to see her
going off into a decline before our eyes and maybe dying on us. And
because we had a respect for your memory; and that’s more than you had
for yourself, hiding away here from a girl that any man might be proud
to own. And it’s more than you have for us, putting the hard word on
us, and we doing the best we could from the start.”

Dr. O’Grady was a reasonable man. His anger cooled. He came to see
that his friends had acted with the best intentions. He apologized
handsomely to Patsy Devlin.

“All the same,” he added, “you will have to go. I tell you what it is,
if the police do come here, the Field Marshal will shoot the two of us.
He told me himself that that’s what he’d do. And, whatever else he may
be, he’s a man of his word.”

“He dursn’t, not with the police in the house. He’d be hanged.”

“He doesn’t care a pin whether he’s hanged or not. As a matter of fact,
I expect he’d rather like to be hanged. He’s an anti-militarist.”

“I was just thinking,” said Patsy, “when he gave the word of command to
me there in the yard, that he’d been in the militia himself some time.”

“Well, he hasn’t, so you’re out there. So far as I can make out, one
of his main objects in life is to blow up the militia, and the regular
army along with it. He’s an anarchist of the most advanced kind.”

“Be damn, and is he that?”

“He is. And I can tell you an anarchist isn’t what you’d call a
playboy. Anarchism isn’t a bit like your futile old League. It doesn’t
go about the country making speeches and pretending it’s going to
boycott people that it hasn’t the least notion of doing any harm to. A
genuine anarchist, a man like the Field Marshal, for instance, doesn’t
say a word to anybody, but just goes quietly and blows up a town.”

“I’ll not have you speaking against the League, doctor. I’ve been a
member of it since ever there was a branch started in Clonmore. I’d
be a member of it still, if it wasn’t that they went against me the
time of the election of the inspector of sheep dipping. I can tell you
there’s them in it would think very little of making the country hot
for the man that went against the will of the people in the matter of
grazing ranches or the like.”

“I don’t want to argue about the League either on one side or another.
What I’m trying to get you to understand is simply this. You’ve got to
go, and to go to-night, as soon as ever the Field Marshal is tucked up
in his little bed and the house quiet. Listen to me now, and I’ll make
the position plain to you. As long as I was here by myself I was more
or less safe. The disappearance of one man doesn’t make much difference
in a neighbourhood like ours; but when it comes to two men vanishing in
the inside of one week there’s bound to be a fuss. The police will take
the matter up to a certainty. If they come here--and they will come
here when they’ve tried everywhere else--you and I will be shot by the
Field Marshal.”

He looked at Patsy as he spoke, and noticed with regret that he was
producing little or no impression.

“And what’s more, I’ll lose well over a hundred pounds; a hundred
pounds that I want badly.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that before?” said Patsy. “Is it likely now
that I’d want to stand between you and a lump of money like that? I
wouldn’t do it to any man, much less one like yourself, that I have a
respect for. Give me the writings now that we were speaking of, and
I’ll start at once.”

“You can’t start till night; but I’ll write the notes at once if you
like.”

“And the one to the young lady along with the other two.”

“I told you before,” said Dr. O’Grady, “that I won’t give you a note to
her.”

“Then I’ll stay where I am. It’s more than I dare to go back without a
line of some sort to quiet her. Don’t I tell you she’d have me hanged?
And when that’s done she’ll be down here after you with the police, and
you’ll be as badly off as you were before.”

“She’ll not be able to do that. Lord Manton would stop the police.”

“She’ll come without them, then. That sort of a young lady would do
anything.”

“If she does,” said Dr. O’Grady, “the Field Marshal will shut her up
too. He won’t do her any harm, and I’ll be delighted to have her here.”

“You want her here along with you?”

“I’d be glad to have her, of course. Don’t you know that she and I are
engaged to be married?”

“Well, aren’t you the queer man? Anybody’d think you were trying to
hide yourself from her for fear she’d marry you against your will.”

“Is that one of the lies you and Jimmy O’Loughlin have been telling
Miss Blow?”

“It is not, of course.”

“Well, don’t let me catch you saying anything of the sort, or it’ll be
the worse for you. Now, leave me in peace till I write the notes.”

“I’m not going with them,” said Patsy; “so you needn’t trouble yourself
to be writing.”

“All right. If you prefer to stay here and be shot, you can. You’ll be
sorry afterwards, that’s all. I tell you the Emperor is not a man to be
trifled with. There’s a fellow downstairs here that’s sick, and I go
twice every day to attend him. I give you my word, Patsy, all the time
I’m dressing his wounds I have the muzzle of that revolver stuck up
against the back of my neck. I’d be uncommonly nervous if I didn’t know
that the poor old Emperor is a good sort and reliable, in spite of his
fondness for yellow crocodiles.”

“Is there crocodiles in this house?”

“There are; large yellow ones. The dining-room is crawling with them.”

“That settles it, then,” said Patsy. “If I was ever so keen to get out
of this, I wouldn’t do it after that. I’d be in dread of them beasts;
and I dursn’t face them. They’d be out after me, and me going down the
stairs in the dark; and I wouldn’t know how to speak to them the way
they wouldn’t bite.”

“Don’t be an ass, Patsy. They’re not real crocodiles. They’re dead.”

“Alive or dead, I’ll not face them; so it’s no use your talking.
They’re not what I’m used to, and I’d rather stay here along with you
where I’d be safe.”




CHAPTER VIII


Miss Blow went straight from Clonmore Castle to the police barrack.
She was received at the door by Constable Moriarty, who happened to be
on duty at the time. He was a young man who had only recently joined
the force. Miss Blow, after a glance at his smooth boyish face, asked
to see the sergeant. She was shown into a small room, known as the
office, and kept waiting while Sergeant Farrelly, who was digging
potatoes in the garden, “cleaned himself.” Her manner, when he joined
her, was peremptory. She demanded that a search party should start at
once and scour the country for Dr. O’Grady’s body. Sergeant Farrelly
was puzzled, and scratched his head. Miss Blow handed him Lord Manton’s
note. He read it, was very perplexed, and scratched his head again.
Miss Blow pressed her demand.

“It will be better,” said the sergeant at last, “if I go up to the
Castle, and speak to his lordship myself. If you’ll have the kindness,
miss, to leave your name and address, I’ll communicate with you.”

“I’ll wait here,” said Miss Blow, “till you return.”

“Is it in the barrack, miss?”

“Here,” said Miss Blow firmly.

Sergeant Farrelly looked at her helplessly. He did not want a handsome
young lady in the barrack; he thought his office an unsuitable place
for Miss Blow; but he saw no way of altering her determination. He left
her and summoned Constable Moriarty.

“The young lady within,” he said, “will wait in the office until such
time as I come back from the Castle, where I’ll be speaking on business
to his lordship. I leave it to you, Constable Moriarty, to see that
she’s treated with proper respect.”

“Is it me?” said Moriarty.

“It is you. You can take her in yesterday’s paper, and if it happens
that she’s read it already, you can talk to her, making yourself as
pleasant and agreeable as you know how.”

Wilkins, Lord Manton’s butler, was a good servant. He opened the door
to Sergeant Farrelly at about twelve o’clock, and blandly gave the
message with which he had been charged.

“His lordship is out, and it is uncertain at what hour he will return.”

Sergeant Farrelly was baffled. He went back to the barrack. He
found that Miss Blow had moved from the office, which was small and
incommodious, and had settled herself in the men’s day room. Constable
Moriarty, embarrassed and very pink about the face, stood in front
of her. Constable Cole, who was off duty, was grinning in a corner.
Miss Blow at once reiterated her demand that a party should go out to
look for Dr. O’Grady’s body. Sergeant Farrelly reasoned with her. When
reason failed, he tried to impress her with the majesty of the law. He
was a portly man and over six feet in height. On patrol duty, on guard
over a public-house on Sunday, or giving evidence in court as to the
amount of drink taken by a prisoner, he was an impressive man. He did
not impress Miss Blow. Being an English woman, she held the curious
theory that the police exist for the protection of the public, and
that they ought to engage willingly in the investigation of crime.
Sergeant Farrelly knew, of course, that this was not true; but he was
unable to explain his position to Miss Blow, because she would not
listen to what he said.

At two o’clock, Miss Blow being still immovable in the day room of the
barrack, Sergeant Farrelly started again for Clonmore Castle. This
time he was accompanied by Constable Moriarty, who, reckless of the
consequences of not obeying orders, refused to be left to entertain
Miss Blow. Constable Cole slipped quietly out into the garden and took
a turn at the potatoes which the sergeant had been obliged to leave
undug.

Wilkins said politely what he had said before. Sergeant Farrelly and
Moriarty sat down in the hall to wait. They waited till four o’clock.
Then they returned to the barrack, hoping that Miss Blow would have
gone home. They found that she had not gone and showed no signs of
going. She was sitting in the men’s room, eating biscuits out of a
paper bag. It appeared afterwards that Constable Cole had gone out and
bought the biscuits for her, fearing that she might be hungry. Sergeant
Farrelly reprimanded him sharply for this.

Miss Blow gave the sergeant and his men her opinion of the Royal Irish
Constabulary. She used plain and forcible language, repeating such
words as incapacity, inefficiency, and cowardice at frequent intervals.
She spoke for nearly half an hour, and then demanded again that the
whole force should set out at once and search for Dr. O’Grady’s body.
Constable Cole grinned, and was caught in the act. The sergeant snubbed
him promptly. Miss Blow took off her hat and jacket, and said she
intended to stay where she was until a search party went out.

Sergeant Farrelly and his men withdrew and held a counsel in the
kitchen. Constable Moriarty suggested that Miss Blow should be arrested
on a charge of drunkenness, and locked up for the night.

“If she isn’t drunk,” he argued, “she wouldn’t be behaving the way she
is.”

His advice was not taken. In the first place, she was a well-dressed
and good-looking young woman; and Sergeant Farrelly, being unmarried,
was a courteous man. In the second place, she had come to the barrack
bearing a note from Lord Manton, and however unintelligible the note
might be, it had unquestionably been written by a peer of the realm. In
the third place, as Constable Cole pointed out, their object was not to
keep Miss Blow in the barrack, but to get her out. Pressed by Moriarty
and the sergeant for an alternative scheme, Cole suggested vaguely that
they should resort to what he called a “stratagem.” This sounded well;
but it turned out in the end that he had nothing better to suggest than
that Jimmy O’Loughlin should be induced to send a message to her to
the effect that her dinner was ready and would be spoiled if she kept
it waiting. The plan received no support. Sergeant Farrelly pointed
out that it would be most unwise to confess their difficulty to Jimmy
O’Loughlin.

“That fellow,” he said, “would take a delight in turning the police
into ridicule, and setting the whole country laughing at us. And
besides,” he said, with a look of withering contempt at Constable Cole,
“it’s not likely she’d be caring about her dinner after you giving her
sixpennyworth of biscuits and more. Believe you me, she wouldn’t mind
this minute if she never saw dinner again.”

Half an hour later Sergeant Farrelly himself offered Miss Blow a cup
of tea. He was a kindly man, as most police sergeants are, and it
grieved him to think that the young lady who had established herself
in his barrack was spending a whole day with nothing to eat except dry
biscuits. She took the tea without thanks, and again demanded that
the search for Dr. O’Grady should begin. Sergeant Farrelly became
desperate. He set out at once again for Clonmore Castle. This time he
was accompanied by both constables, and Miss Blow was left in sole
possession of the barrack. He learned that Lord Manton was still out.
After a short consultation, he and the two constables sat down in the
hall to wait. They waited till ten o’clock, and would have waited
longer still had not Wilkins informed them that it was his duty at that
hour to lock up the house for the night. The police returned to their
barrack, disputing hotly about the best way of disposing of Miss Blow
for the night. To their immense relief they found that she had gone.

At nine o’clock next morning she walked into the barrack again and took
her seat in the men’s day room. This time she had with her a brown
paper parcel. Constable Cole gave it as his opinion that it contained
provisions for the day.

“I shall stay here,” she said firmly, “until you choose to do your
duty.”

Sergeant Farrelly, who was refreshed and invigorated by his night’s
sleep, began to argue with her. The two constables stood near the
door of the room and admired him. Miss Blow, adopting a particularly
irritating kind of tactics, refused to pay any attention to his
remarks. Whenever he paused to give her an opportunity of stating her
case, she said--

“I shall sit here until you choose to do your duty.”

She had just repeated her formula for the ninth time when a groom rode
up to the door of the barrack. He brought a note from Lord Manton.

“Sergeant Farrelly, R.I.C. Lord Manton is seriously annoyed to hear
that the police spent the greater part of yesterday afternoon and
evening in the hall of Clonmore Castle. Lord Manton has not asked
for police protection, and knows no reason why it should be forced
on him. Lord Manton will not be at home to-day, and he requests that
any communication by way of apology or explanation be made to him in
writing.”

The note was passed round and read with dismay. Sergeant Farrelly and
the two constables, moved by a common impulse, withdrew together to the
kitchen. For a time they stood silent and dejected. Then the sergeant,
assuming an air of confident authority, gave his order.

“Constable Moriarty,” he said, “you will take that note over to
Ballymoy and hand it to the District Inspector. You will kindly explain
at the same time the way we find ourselves fixed here.”

“Maybe,” said Moriarty, “it would be as well if I was to take the other
note along with it--the one his lordship was after sending with the
young lady about the corpse of Dr. O’Grady.”

“It would be as well,” said the sergeant; “I’d be glad he’d see that
note too. But it’s the young lady has it and not me. Did you happen to
think now of e’er a way that it could be got from her?”

“Would you ask her for it?” said Constable Moriarty.

“I might ask her for it, and I might ask the King if he’d lend me the
loan of his crown to go courting in. I’d be as likely to get the one as
the other by asking. If you can think of no better way of getting it
than that, Constable Moriarty, you may go and ask for it yourself; and
you can come back here and let us have a look at you, when she smacks
your face.”

“We might try a stratagem with her,” said Constable Cole, who had made
a similar suggestion the day before. “I was reading a book one time
about a man that was great on stratagems. There wasn’t a thing would
happen but he’d---- I’m sorry now I haven’t the book by me.”

“Stratagems be damned,” said Sergeant Farrelly. “What stratagem
would you be proposing to try? Maybe you’d like me to send for Jimmy
O’Loughlin and him to tell the young lady that his wife was wanting the
note the way she could use it for lighting the kitchen fire to boil the
kettle for tea. Is that your stratagem? Tell me now.”

“It is not,” said Constable Cole, with dignity, “nor it isn’t like
it. If I was the sergeant here, I’d go to the young lady and I’d tell
her, speaking civil and pleasant, that the District Inspector beyond
in Ballymoy had sent a man over for the note, so as he could set the
police all over the country looking for Dr. O’Grady, and that he
wouldn’t be able to do that same without he got the note, on account of
the way the law does be at the present time.”

“Is that what you call a stratagem?” said the sergeant. “It’s a lie I’d
call it myself, a whole pack of lies, and it’s just what they might
take the stripes off me for saying, if so be I was fool enough to say
it. Is it looking to be sergeant yourself in the place of me you are,
that you’d suggest the like of that?”

“All stratagems is lies,” said Constable Cole soothingly. “The one I’m
suggesting is no worse than another.”

“Go and try her with it yourself, then,” said the sergeant, “and see
what you’ll get out of it.”

Constable Cole, pursued by the sniggering laugh of Moriarty, left the
kitchen and went into the day room. Miss Blow had made herself quite
at home. On the iron-legged table with which the police barrack was
provided lay her hat, her jacket, and her gloves. She was knitting a
silk tie, meant perhaps as a present for her father, perhaps as an
adornment for the corpse of Dr. O’Grady when she found it. Constable
Cole drew himself up stiffly to attention and addressed her--

“I beg your pardon, miss, but Sergeant Farrelly will be obliged to you
if you’ll lend him the loan of the note that Lord Manton gave you. He’s
thinking of sending a man over to Ballymoy to the D. I.”

“What’s a D. I.?” asked Miss Blow.

“He’s an officer, miss, a gentleman by the name of Mr. Goddard.”

“Is he your superior officer?”

“He is, miss.”

“Then I’ll go and see him myself, and take the note with me.”

The reply was quite unexpected. Constable Cole hesitated.

“It’s better than twelve miles of a drive,” he said, “and the road’s
none too good. And it could be, miss, that the D. I. might be off
somewhere, shooting or the like, when you got there, and then you
wouldn’t find him.”

“If he is out, I shall wait for him.”

“I wouldn’t doubt you, miss; but it could be----”

“No, it couldn’t,” said Miss Blow. “At all events, it won’t. Kindly go
and get the car at once.”

Constable Cole returned to the kitchen grinning broadly.

“It’s yourself that’s in luck this day, Moriarty,” he said. “It’s not
every man that gets the chance of driving round the country on a car
with the like of that one. Be careful now what you’re saying to her, or
you’ll have the doctor out after you with a stick if he has to come all
the way back from America for the purpose.”

“What do you mean?” said Moriarty.

“She said she’d go with you to Ballymoy, as soon as ever she heard
it was you that was going. But if I hear tell of any impropriety of
conduct, I’ll send word to the red-haired girl that you used to be
walking out with on Sundays when you were up in the depôt learning your
drill. I heard of you.”

Moriarty was young, very young. He blushed hotly.

“I’d be ashamed of my life to be seen with her,” he said. “I’d never
hear the last of it.”

“Off with you at once and get the car,” said the sergeant. “In the name
of God, if the girl’s willing to go out of this, will you take her
along with you before she changes her mind? Haven’t we had enough of
her this two days?”

In less than half an hour the car--Jimmy O’Loughlin’s car--was at the
door of the barrack. Constable Moriarty, in full panoply, his grey cape
rolled round his chest, his carbine between his knees, sat on one
side. Miss Blow, looking very handsome, got up on the other. Sergeant
Farrelly wrapped a rug round her knees and tucked the end of it under
her feet. Then he presented her with a sixpenny box of chocolates. He
had gone round to Jimmy O’Loughlin’s shop and bought this offering
while the horse was being harnessed.

“It’s a long drive you have before you,” he said, “and I was thinking
maybe you’d like something to comfort you on the way. It’s no more
than a trifle, and not what you’d be accustomed to, but Clonmore is a
backward place, and it’s the most thing of the kind there was in Jimmy
O’Loughlin’s shop.”

Constable Cole rushed from the barrack bareheaded, just as the car was
starting. He had Miss Blow’s brown paper parcel in his hand.

“You’ve forgotten your lunch, miss,” he shouted. “You’ll be wanting it
before you’re back.”

He stowed the parcel in the well of the car, and was able as he did so
to still further embarrass the unfortunate Constable Moriarty.

“By rights,” he whispered, “you ought to be sitting on the same side
with her. It’s what she’d expect of you; and if you don’t do it when
you get off to walk up Ballyglunin Hill, she’ll be in a mighty bad
temper against you have her safe with the D. I. If you’re half a man,
Moriarty, you’ll do it.”

There was a good deal of excitement in the town when Miss Blow drove
off under the escort of Constable Moriarty. The news that Jimmy
O’Loughlin’s car had been ordered for her and the constable spread so
rapidly that by the time the start was actually made a small crowd
had gathered in the street to see it. Afterwards, for more than an
hour, men stopped casually at the barrack door, chatted on indifferent
subjects with Sergeant Farrelly or Constable Cole, and then asked one
or two leading questions about Miss Blow and her business. The police
were very reticent. Sergeant Farrelly was an impressive man with a
great deal of personal dignity. He knew that contemptible witticisms
would be levelled at him and the force of which he was a member, if
it came to be known that Miss Blow, a solitary young woman, had held
up the police of Clonmore for the whole of one day and a part of the
next. He dreaded the remarks of irreverent small boys if they heard how
nearly he and his men had been forced to go in search of Dr. O’Grady’s
body. He was haunted by a terrible fear that the story might get into
the newspapers.

“There’s them,” he said to Constable Cole, “who’d be only too glad to
get a handle against the police--fellows up in Dublin writing for low
papers. Believe you me, it’ll be mighty unpleasant for us if you aren’t
able to keep your mouth shut.”

Cole was no more willing than the sergeant to give information. The
inquirers, baffled at the barrack, moved on to the bar of the hotel,
and asked their questions there. Jimmy O’Loughlin had no information to
give them. He did not know, any better than his customers, the reason
for Miss Blow’s expedition; but he liked to pose as being well up in
the whole business. He shook his head gravely, made cryptic remarks,
parried questions with other questions, and at last, without in the
least meaning to, conveyed the impression that Miss Blow, by some
mysterious process of law, had been arrested for Dr. O’Grady’s debts.
The opinion gained ground in the town as one after another of the
inquirers emerged from the bar. Strong sympathy was felt with Miss
Blow, and there was some talk of summoning a special meeting of the
League to consider her case. It was generally agreed that a unanimous
resolution would be appropriate, and that a series of questions might
very well be asked in the House of Commons by one of the members for
the county.




CHAPTER IX


Before any definite action was taken, the public interest was diverted
from Miss Blow and her affairs by a new sensation. At about half-past
one o’clock Mrs. Patsy Devlin was seen advancing along the street
towards the barrack with a crowd of women and children after her. Her
appearance suggested that she was suffering from an extremity of grief.
Her hair hung loose over her shoulders in picturesque grey wisps. Her
bodice had only one fastening, a white pin, driven through it near the
neck. Below the pin the garment gaped, down to the point at which,
still gaping, it was tucked into a crimson petticoat. Her boots, a pair
so large that they might have been, and probably were, her husband’s,
were unlaced, and clattered on the ground every time she lifted her
feet.

“Himself is gone from me,” she wailed, when she reached the door of the
barrack, “gone and left me, and me sick in my bed with an impression
on my chest and a rumbling within in the inside of me as it might be
a cart, or two carts, and they with turf in them going along on the
street.”

“My good woman,” said Sergeant Farrelly, “go home out of this, and
don’t be making a disturbance on the public street.”

“Home, is it?” wailed Mrs. Devlin; “and where will I find a home when
himself is gone from me?”

“Go to your bed,” said the sergeant; “and if so be that you’re sick
the way you’re after telling us, get the doctor to attend you.”

Then he recollected that there was no doctor in Clonmore, and suggested
as an alternative that she should send one of the children up to Jimmy
O’Loughlin’s shop to buy “some sort of a bottle that would do her good.”

“And what good would a bottle be to me, if I had the money to pay for
it itself, and where would I get the money, with himself gone from me?
It was a bad head he was to me, and many’s the time I’ve been sorry
that ever I married him, but sure it’s worse I’ll do without him now
he’s gone.”

“And that’s true for her, the creature,” said old Biddy Halloran from
the outskirts of the crowd.

“Where is he gone to?” asked the sergeant.

“Is it where has he gone? If I knew that, would I come to you to find
him for me? Where has he gone? Och! but I’d be the thankful woman this
day if I could lay my eyes on him.”

Mrs. Devlin wept wildly.

“Stop your crying, woman dear,” said a sympathizer; “sure the police
will have him found for you in two twos. Isn’t that what they’re here
for?”

“When did you miss him?” asked the sergeant.

“Miss him! Amn’t I missing him every minute since he went from me, and
the children along with me crying for their da, and them with no da
left them?”

“When did you see him last?” said the sergeant, varying the form of his
question.

“I seen him,” said Mrs. Devlin, “e’er last night. He came home, and him
after spending the evening at Jimmy O’Loughlin’s.”

“Had he drink taken?”

Mrs. Devlin hesitated. One of her supporters in the crowd encouraged
her to speak out boldly.

“Don’t be afeard, Mrs. Devlin, ma’am. Speak up to the sergeant when he
asks you the question. It’s for your own good that he’s trying to get
the truth out of you.”

“I won’t,” said Mrs. Devlin at last, “be telling lies to you. He had
not. There wasn’t a sign of it on him, though I won’t deny that he
might have had a glass of porter or the like.”

“And did he spent the night with you in the house?”

“He did--he did,” wailed Mrs. Devlin, overcome afresh by the
recollection. “And in the morning, as it might be yesterday morning,
when he had his breakfast took, ‘I’m off,’ says he, ‘up to the Castle,’
says he, ‘to see the old lord that always was a good friend to me and
my father before me.’ And I never seen him since.”

“Did he go to the Castle?” asked the sergeant.

“How would I know whether he did or not? Amn’t I after telling you that
I was sick in my bed?”

“He did go,” said a man from the crowd, “for I seen him getting over
the wall into the deer park, and him looking most determined, the same
as if he had business to do.”

“And why didn’t you come up and tell me before?” said the sergeant.
“He’s gone for twenty-four hours and more, and it’s only now you find
it out.”

“I was expecting him to step into the house every minute,” said Mrs.
Devlin, “and I wasn’t willing to lay my mind down to it that he was
gone, till there was no help for it.”

“The Lord save us!” said old Biddy Halloran. “It’s an afflicted
creature you are this day, Mary Devlin.”

Sergeant Farrelly buttoned his tunic and took his cap. He summoned
Constable Cole and they marched together down the street towards Jimmy
O’Loughlin’s hotel. The crowd, Mrs. Devlin at the head of it, followed
them. Constable Cole turned.

“Go home out of that the lot of you,” he said, “and take Mrs. Devlin
along with you. The matter is in the hands of the police now, and that
ought to content you.”

Jimmy O’Loughlin’s customers deserted him as soon as the noise of
Mrs. Devlin’s wailing was heard in the street. He stood alone behind
his bar when the police entered the hotel. He greeted the sergeant
heartily, for he was a man of good conscience and unaware of any reason
why he should dread a visit from the police. He was struck by the
solemn severity with which Sergeant Farrelly replied to his greeting,
and became vaguely uneasy. The business of a publican is beset with
legal snares which only the most fortunate men succeed in avoiding
altogether. Jimmy examined himself rapidly, but failed to discover
anything in his immediate past which could bring him under the lash of
the law. He was quite sure that batch of convivial friends who absorbed
a few dozen bottles of porter on the previous Sunday had entered his
house unseen. They had certainly entered it cautiously--by the back
door, after climbing over a wall into his yard. His mental attitude was
that of the people of the town of Bethlehem when the prophet Samuel
came unexpectedly among them. They were not conscious of deserving any
kind of denunciation, but they were anxious, and said to the great
man: “Comest thou peaceably?” Jimmy O’Loughlin might have repeated
their exact words, but he had never heard the story, and was therefore
unable to quote from it. His face wore an expression of anxious
interrogation.

“Did you hear,” said Sergeant Farrelly, “what they’re after telling me
about Patsy Devlin?”

“What about him?” said Jimmy cautiously.

“He’s left the town, and deserted his wife and family.”

“Do you say that now?”

“It’s not me that says it,” said the sergeant; “but it’s being said.”

“I wouldn’t wonder,” said Jimmy, “but there might be some truth in it.”

Neither he nor his public-house could be held in any way responsible
for the disappearance of Patsy Devlin. He felt free to discuss
the event in a friendly way with the police and to give them any
information he could so long as he said nothing likely to lead to the
capture of Patsy.

“I’m told,” said the sergeant, “that the last night he was in Clonmore
he spent the most of it along with yourself.”

“He might,” said Jimmy.

He did not quite see the point of the sergeant’s remark, and felt that
he must be cautious.

“Could you give me any information about what he intended doing with
himself the next day?”

“He told me,” said Jimmy, after thinking the matter over, “and it
could be that he was telling me the truth--he told me he was going up
to the Castle to try if he could get a pound, or maybe two pounds,
out of Lord Manton for the sports. He was collecting the town and the
district; and he said to me himself that he’d done well. The money was
coming in better than ever it did.”

“Ah!” said the sergeant with deep meaning.

“Just so,” said Jimmy.

“And was that what you meant this minute when you said that you
wouldn’t wonder if there might be some truth in what they’re saying
about him being gone?”

“He’s not the first,” said Jimmy, “nor he won’t be the last. There was
Cooney that was treasurer of the League, and nobody ever heard of him
after. It was upwards of twenty pounds he had. There was----”

“It’s larceny,” said Constable Cole.

“You’re wrong there,” said the sergeant. “It’s misappropriation of
public funds under trust, besides the charge that might be brought by
the subscribers of obtaining money under false pretences.”

“You’ll never get him,” said Jimmy.

“It isn’t him I’m thinking of,” said the sergeant, “but his wife that’s
left with a long family dependent on her and not knowing where to look
for the bit to put into their mouths.”

“It’s a pity of the creature,” said Constable Cole. “It’s badly she’ll
be able to do without him.”

“If so be,” said Jimmy, “that Patsy’s gone the way you say, he’ll have
left a trifle behind him for the widow, be the same more or less. He
always had a good heart, and it wouldn’t be like a thing he’d do to
leave his children to starve.”

“Devil the penny she owned up to anyway,” said the sergeant.

“Then he’ll send it,” said Jimmy; “he’ll send it from America.”

“He might,” said the sergeant.

“The world,” said Constable Cole, “is full of trouble, any way you look
at it.”

“Does Father Moroney know he’s gone?” asked Jimmy.

“I’m thinking he must,” said the sergeant; “he could hardly miss
hearing the way the creature was going on in the street, crying all
sorts.”

“He’ll be apt to be raising a subscription for her,” said Jimmy, “to
put her over until such time as Patsy sends home the trifle he has for
her.”

“I’ll give something towards it myself,” said the sergeant, “and I’ll
see that the men in the barrack contributes.”

Jimmy O’Loughlin was not to be outdone in generosity by the members of
the constabulary.

“I have the pound by me,” he said, “that I’d promised Patsy Devlin, the
poor boy, for the sports. I hadn’t it paid over to him, thanks be to
God. I’d be thankful to you, sergeant, if you’d take it and hand it on
to Father Moroney. It’s no more than due to the woman, seeing that her
husband could have had it if he’d thought of taking it, and I’ll add
another five shillings to it from myself.”

He handed the whole sum over to Sergeant Farrelly, who put it in his
pocket.

“He was always a bit of a lad, that Patsy Devlin,” said Constable Cole.

“He might be a bit foolish at times,” said Jimmy; “but there was no
harm in him.”

“It’s as good for you,” said the sergeant, “that you didn’t make him
the inspector of sheep dipping that time.”

“It was that preyed on his mind,” said Jimmy. “He never rightly got
over it. I don’t say he’d have been elected--there was better men up
for the job than him--but he destroyed himself altogether when he went
getting a testimonial to his character from Lord Manton. The League
wouldn’t stand the like of that, and small blame to them. It couldn’t
be expected that they would.”

“We’ll go up to the Castle,” said the sergeant to Constable Cole, “and
find out whether Patsy went there before he left, if so be that his
lordship has come home.”

“I didn’t hear any talk of his being away,” said Jimmy.

“Well, he was away. Yesterday and to-day.”

“That’s queer now,” said Jimmy, “for it was only this morning I was
talking to Byrne the steward, and he told me that his lordship was
walking round yesterday afternoon looking into the new drain he’s
thinking of making across the top of the deer park, and that he went in
for his tea the same as usual. What’s more, he was speaking to Byrne
this morning about the disgraceful way the roads is kept by the County
Council, and the rates being so high and such-like.”

“It couldn’t be,” said the sergeant, “for I was up there three times
yesterday, and I wasn’t able to see him.”

“Take care but he didn’t want to see you.”

“And I had a letter from him this morning telling me that he’d be away
from home all the day.”

“Take care,” said Jimmy again, “but he mightn’t have wanted to see
you.”

“And why wouldn’t he?”

“I’m not saying it is, mind you,” said Jimmy; “but it might be that he
knows more about Patsy Devlin than he’d care to tell. Him and Patsy was
mighty thick.”

“Talk sense, can’t you?” said the sergeant. “Is it likely now that a
man like his lordship would be conniving at the escape of a criminal
from justice?”

“I said no such thing,” said Jimmy; “and I’ll thank you, Sergeant
Farrelly, not to be putting it out that I did. What I said was that
he might know more than he’d care to tell. Would you think now that a
gentleman like him--and I’ll say this for him, that he always was a
gentleman--do you think now that, if so be he did know where Patsy was
gone, he’d be wanting to tell you and maybe get a poor man into trouble
that he had a liking for? Didn’t you tell me this minute that he had
himself hid away from you when you were up at the Castle looking for
him? Why would he do the like? Tell me that now. Why would he do it?”

“Come along out of this,” said the sergeant to Constable Cole. “We’ve
no business standing here listening to such talk. I’m going up to the
Castle now, Mr. O’Loughlin, and if I hear so much as another word of
that nonsense out of your head I’ll tell his lordship what you’re after
saying.”

“You may tell him,” said Jimmy, “when you get a hold of him to tell;
but it’s my belief that if he hid on you yesterday, he’ll hide on you
again to-day.”

It turned out that Jimmy O’Loughlin was perfectly right. Constable Cole
said that he was prepared to swear, if necessary, that he saw Lord
Manton looking out of one of the windows of the Castle. But Wilkins
was as impenetrably suave as he had been the day before.

“His lordship left word,” he said, “in case you called, that he was
away from home and couldn’t say precisely when he might return.”




CHAPTER X


Mr. Goddard, the District Inspector of Police, was a young man and
stood on the lowest rung of his professional ladder. It was recognized
by his superiors, it was even feared by the man himself, that he was
never likely to rise very high in the service. He was, in fact, an
inefficient officer. He had a natural sense of humour, which was a
great misfortune, because it led him to see situations like those of
comic operas in the course of the duties which he was called upon to
perform. He was wise enough not to laugh loudly at the things which
happened; but the fact that a great deal of what he had to do struck
him as ludicrous prevented his doing his duty heartily and thoroughly.
An Irish police officer ought to have a good opinion of himself and
his position. He ought to recognize his official kinship with the
potentates who draw large salaries for administering the affairs of the
Indians, the Egyptians, and other barbarous peoples. He is humbler, of
course, and is paid less; but he is engaged in the same kind of work.
He is securing to a conquered people the blessings of law and order.
Unfortunately, Mr. Goddard could never see himself steadily in this
light. Another cause of his inefficiency was indolence. The duties
which did not strike him as comic bored him intolerably; but like many
lazy men, he was subject to spasms of vigour when irritated. It was his
custom to avoid doing anything for as long as possible, and at last,
if goaded beyond endurance, to act with a violence which surprised his
subordinates. He had a taste for literature, even when it took the form
of poetry, and used to read a good deal in the evenings.

He was reading a novel when Miss Blow and Constable Moriarty drove up
to his house. He received them in his dining-room, and was chiefly
anxious at first to get rid of them as soon as possible. He did not
realize for some time that Miss Blow was the kind of woman who ought to
be offered a chair and invited to sit down on it. She came, apparently,
in the custody of a policeman, and Mr. Goddard did not look closely at
her. She saved him from any embarrassment he might afterwards have felt
by walking over to an armchair and settling herself comfortably in it.

Constable Moriarty produced Lord Manton’s note of complaint and handed
it over to his officer. He explained that Sergeant Farrelly had called
three times at Clonmore Castle and had waited in the hall for some
hours in the hope of seeing Lord Manton. Mr. Goddard read the note
and asked a number of questions. He succeeded in greatly embarrassing
Constable Moriarty. That young man had the feelings of a gentleman. He
would not say anything likely to cause pain or discomfort to a lady.
He hesitated in his account of Miss Blow’s invasion of the barrack. He
contradicted himself three times in trying to explain the views of the
police about the disappearance of Dr. O’Grady.

Miss Blow cut into the conversation sharply.

“I demand,” she said, “that the police should investigate a case of
murder, and they refuse to do so.”

Mr. Goddard, for the first time, took a good look at her. He realized
at once that she was an extremely handsome girl. Even so it seemed
improbable that any one would murder a dispensary doctor well known to
be very popular.

“Murder,” he said tentatively, “is perhaps too strong a word.”

“Lord Manton agrees with me,” said Miss Blow, “that he has been
murdered.”

She took Lord Manton’s note from her pocket and handed it to Mr.
Goddard. He read it, reread it, and then turned inquiringly to the
constable. Moriarty reluctantly admitted that Lord Manton’s words might
bear the interpretation which Miss Blow put on them.

“Then why on earth did you not investigate the matter?” said Mr.
Goddard.

Constable Moriarty became very confused. With Miss Blow’s fine eyes
fixed on him he could not bring himself to blurt out the naked truth.
He was as unwilling as everybody else had been to break the heart of a
beautiful girl by saying that her lover had basely deserted her.

“It could be,” he said feebly, “that the doctor’s alive and well yet.”

This was very much Mr. Goddard’s own opinion. He read Lord Manton’s
note again, and then turned to Miss Blow.

“I am very sorry,” he said, “that you should have been put to so much
trouble and inconvenience. I hope I am not tiring you too much, but
would you mind telling me what reasons you have for supposing that Dr.
O’Grady has been murdered?”

Miss Blow’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. She caught at her skirt
with both hands, clenching the folds of it tightly.

“We were to have been married this year,” she said, “and oh----”

Then, fumbling hurriedly for her pocket-handkerchief, she burst into
a flood of tears. There was every excuse for her. She had been driven
to the belief that her lover was murdered. She had gone through three
trying days, the last two of them very trying. She was a stranger among
people who seemed heartless and cruel to an extraordinary degree. She
had every right to an outbreak of hysterical weeping. Yet it should
be noted to her credit that she chose as the witness of her breakdown
the man, of all those whom she had met, most likely to be influenced
by tears. Lord Manton, if she had wept in his study, would have
comforted her; but he would also have enjoyed his task and would have
appreciated the appearance of her slobbered cheeks. Sergeant Farrelly
would have sympathized with her if she had wept in the police barrack,
but he would not have gone out to search for Dr. O’Grady’s body merely
because she made a sponge of her pocket-handkerchief. Mr. Goddard was
different. He was young, and though he had a sense of humour, the sight
of a beautiful girl shaken with sobs embarrassed him.

He did not exactly know what he ought to do. He looked round, hoping
for some suggestion from the constable; but Moriarty had slipped
quietly from the room. Mr. Goddard made a hasty and impassioned vow
that he would give Constable Moriarty a severe lesson in the respect
due to his superior officer. Then he looked at Miss Blow again. She was
sobbing convulsively. He watched her helplessly for several minutes,
and then asked her if she would like a cup of tea. He had to repeat
the question twice, because, owing to nervousness, he was inaudible
the first time he asked it. Miss Blow, when she heard what he said,
shook her head vigorously. Mr. Goddard felt that there must have been
something insulting about the suggestion, and was sorry he had made it.
He wished very much that he knew how to behave under the circumstances.
By way of relieving the tension of the situation he got up and stood
behind Miss Blow. Then he walked round her chair and stood in front
of her. Neither position availed to check her weeping. Her head was
bowed almost to her lap and her face was covered with her hands. It
occurred to him that it might soothe her if he patted her back and
shoulders gently. He stretched out his hand. Then he paused. He was a
man of chivalrous feeling towards women, the result perhaps of reading
Tennyson’s poetry, and it struck him that it would be unfair to pat a
girl who was obviously incapable of resisting. He stood irresolute, his
hand still stretched out. His attitude was not unlike that of a priest
who bestows a benediction upon a deeply contrite penitent.

“Miss Blow,” he said at last, “please stop crying.”

Curiously enough this appeal produced its effect upon her.

“How can I help crying,” she said, though her utterance was broken with
sobs, “when he’s dead, and no one will help me even to find his body?”

Mr. Goddard’s resolution was taken in an instant. He did not believe
that Dr. O’Grady was dead. He knew that he was laying up trouble for
himself in the future; but it was absolutely necessary to stop Miss
Blow crying and, if possible, to get her out of the house.

“I’ll help you,” he said. “I’ll do all that can be done to find him. I
shall put all the men in my district to work. I shall leave no place
unsearched until I find him, alive or dead.”

Miss Blow looked up at him, and smiled through her tears. Even an
ordinary girl, with no particular pretensions to beauty, looks very
charming when she succeeds in smiling and crying at the same time.
Miss Blow seemed radiantly lovely. Mr. Goddard felt that he was losing
command of himself. He felt strongly inclined to quote some poetry. He
knew that there must be poetry suitable to the situation, but for the
moment he could think of nothing except four lines out of _Maud_.

  “Oh, that ’twere possible
    After long grief and pain,
  To feel the arms of my true love
    Around me once again.”

There was a certain appropriateness about the verses, and yet he
hesitated to quote them. He was not sure that Miss Blow would care to
admit in plain words to a total stranger that she wanted Dr. O’Grady’s
arms round her. Miss Blow saved him from his uncertainty. She gave her
eyes two rapid dabs with her wet pocket-handkerchief, and said--

“When shall we start?”

“Some day next week,” said Mr. Goddard. “Suppose we say----”

Miss Blow collapsed again, and showed every sign of more tears.

“Sooner, if you like,” said Mr. Goddard hurriedly.

“At once, then,” said Miss Blow, rallying; “at once; this very moment.”

Mr. Goddard looked at his watch. It was three o’clock. It would take
him at least two hours to drive to Clonmore. He could do very little
there that evening.

“At once,” repeated Miss Blow; “this very instant.”

Mr. Goddard gave in. He believed that he was going to make a fool of
himself, but saw no way of escape. Miss Blow’s vigorous manner of
crying convinced him that she was quite capable of sitting in his
dining-room and continuing to cry until he set out in search of Dr.
O’Grady’s body.

“Will you excuse me,” he said, “while I go upstairs and put on my
uniform?”

Miss Blow nodded and smiled again. The thought of a uniform comforted
her. A man can hardly fail in his duty when he puts on a uniform for
the express purpose of performing it. Mr. Goddard took courage from her
smile.

“I shall tell my housekeeper,” he said, “to bring you a cup of tea. I
am sure you must need it. You can drink it while you are waiting. I
shall have my horse harnessed and drive you back with me to Clonmore.”

This time Miss Blow did not refuse the tea. She drank two cups of it
when it was brought to her, and finished a plate of bread-and-butter.
It took Mr. Goddard some time to array himself, because he paused
frequently to try and hit upon some way of getting rid of Miss Blow
without driving her into Clonmore. He tried in vain. Miss Blow, after
drinking her tea, was able to devote a few minutes to her hair and the
position of her hat. There was a mirror over the chimney-piece in Mr.
Goddard’s dining-room.

Mr. Goddard’s horse was a good one, and could undoubtedly have done the
journey to Clonmore in less than two hours, but Mr. Goddard did not
press him. He found the drive agreeable. Miss Blow had quite stopped
crying before she got into the trap, and she talked with the utmost
frankness about her affairs. There is something very delightful in the
confidences of a beautiful girl. Miss Blow had a way of looking up with
her eyes wide open, which sent a curious thrill of pleasure through
Mr. Goddard. There was only one thing which marred the enjoyment of
the drive. Her confidences were of the most puzzling and embarrassing
kind. She told how everybody in Clonmore had lied. And so far, Mr.
Goddard sympathized with her. But he could not help asking himself why
they lied. Even Jimmy O’Loughlin, as Mr. Goddard understood, would
not lie persistently without a motive of some kind. Of course, Miss
Blow had an explanation ready at hand. Dr. O’Grady was murdered, and
everybody was interested in concealing the fact. But Mr. Goddard could
not believe this. He did not attempt to argue with her, for he had no
wish to reduce her to tears again; but he knew very well that nobody in
the neighbourhood would murder Dr. O’Grady. He was inclined at first
to think, as every one else did, that the doctor had run away from his
creditors; but Miss Blow demonstrated the absurdity of this theory.
She had come to Clonmore with a blank cheque signed by her father, and
full authority to pay every penny the doctor owed. She had told him
beforehand in a letter that he might expect some relief. Mr. Goddard
was forced to admit that under the circumstances it was very unlikely
that Dr. O’Grady had allowed himself to be chased away to America by
his creditors.

At the same time, the doctor had undoubtedly disappeared. That seemed
the one solid fact there was. Miss Blow referred frequently to Lord
Manton’s note. It puzzled Mr. Goddard quite as much as anything else
did. He knew Lord Manton, and he could not understand how he came to
believe, as apparently he did believe, in the murder of Dr. O’Grady.
Mr. Goddard made up his mind that he would go up to Clonmore Castle
and talk the whole matter over with Lord Manton. This was the solitary
decision he was able to come to; though he was obliged to pledge
himself over and over again to institute a strict search for the
doctor’s body. He arrived at last in Clonmore and drove straight up to
the hotel.

“You must be very tired,” he said to Miss Blow, “quite worn out. Now
that the matter is in my hands, you need have no further anxiety. I
hope you will stay quietly in the hotel and rest till I see you again.”

He spoke quite sincerely. He did hope that Miss Blow would go into the
hotel and stay there. He feared that she might feel it necessary to
follow him about and watch what he did.

“I shall inform you at once,” he went on, “of everything which
transpires. I must spend this evening in making some preliminary
inquiries; but there is no necessity for you to fatigue yourself
further.”

Miss Blow looked at him long and searchingly. Mr. Goddard felt that she
was judging of his strength and determination, was deciding whether she
could fully trust him or not. He endeavoured to assume the expression
of face which he believed to be common to those strong, silent
Englishmen, whom the heroines of novels learn, after other people have
turned out to be frauds, to trust to the uttermost. He was, apparently,
quite successful in his effort. He deserved to be; for he really felt
for the moment, with Miss Blow’s eyes on him, that he was exactly the
kind of man he wished to appear. Miss Blow, without a word, stretched
out her hand to him. He took it and ventured to press it slightly. He
would have carried it to his lips and pressed a reverent kiss upon it,
if Jimmy O’Loughlin had not been standing at the door of the hotel.
Afterwards he was sorry that he had not defied Jimmy O’Loughlin. A
reverent kiss, even if it had to soak through a glove, would have been
most appropriate to the occasion.

Miss Blow got out of the trap and went into the hotel. Mr. Goddard
drove on to the police barrack.

He found Sergeant Farrelly and Constable Cole drawn up before the door.
They had seen their inspector drive into the town and were ready for
him. Mr. Goddard at once ordered the sergeant to follow him into the
barrack. Constable Cole mounted guard over the horse and trap.

“Now, sergeant,” said Mr. Goddard, “what have you to tell me about the
disappearance of Dr. O’Grady?”

“There’s another man gone since then, sir,” said the sergeant gloomily.

“What do you mean? Who’s gone?”

“I thought it right to let you know, sir--I was within writing a
report on the matter when I seen you drive into the town--that Patsy
Devlin the smith is gone. His wife was up at the barrack shortly after
Constable Moriarty left with the young lady, and she says he’s missing.”

“It’s a queer thing,” said Mr. Goddard, “that two men should disappear
in this sort of way within a couple of days of each other. It looks
bad. Let’s take them one at a time and see what we can make out of
them. What have you to say about the doctor?”

“Everybody knows the reason he’s made off,” said the sergeant, “only
nobody’d like to be telling the young lady, and that’s what has us all
put about the way we are.”

“Do you mean debt?”

“I do, sir. It’s common talk. Jimmy O’Loughlin told me himself----”

“It’s not true anyhow, whether Jimmy O’Loughlin said it or not.
Whatever it was made the doctor bolt, it wasn’t that.”

“Then I don’t know what it would be.”

“No more do I; but I’m going to see Lord Manton and talk to him about
it.”

“It could be,” said Sergeant Farrelly, “that he’d know. Did you take
notice of the note that he gave to the young lady?”

“Yes; I saw it.”

“Well now, his lordship couldn’t be believing that the doctor’s
murdered, and whatever made him write that note it’s my opinion that
there was something behind it. And what’s more, Jimmy O’Loughlin
says----”

“Damn Jimmy O’Loughlin!”

“Jimmy O’Loughlin says,” went on the sergeant, “that his lordship knows
something, be the same more or less, about Patsy Devlin. I wouldn’t
wonder now if he’d be able to tell you where the both of the two of
them is gone and why.”

“What about Patsy Devlin?” asked Mr. Goddard. “What sort of a man is
he?”

“He’s no great things any way you take him. He’s a bit foolish at
times, and takes more than is good for him. I hear them say that he
fretted a deal when they didn’t make him the inspector of sheep
dipping. It might be that the disappointment preyed on him, that and
the drink, so as he wouldn’t be rightly responsible for what he did.”

“Was he mixed up with the League?”

“He was one time, but there was a falling out between him and them over
the sheep dipping. Patsy wasn’t what you’d call great with the League
since then. I’m told he had a deal of money collected for the sports.
Jimmy O’Loughlin let out to me that----”

“It seems to me,” said Mr. Goddard, “that Jimmy O’Loughlin knows more
about these disappearances than anybody else about the place.”

“Unless it would be Lord Manton,” said the sergeant.

“I’ll see Lord Manton anyhow,” said Mr. Goddard. “You can tell the
constable to take my horse and trap round to the hotel. I’ll walk up to
the Castle.”

“It’ll be well,” said the sergeant, “if you get seeing his lordship.”

He spoke meaningly. Mr. Goddard, who was half way to the barrack door,
turned back.

“What’s that you say?”

“It’ll be well,” said the sergeant, “if you’re not told that his
lordship’s away from home.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I was up there yesterday,” said the sergeant; “off and on I was there
for the most of the day; and I was up there again to-day, and all I got
by it was word that his lordship was away from home. Jimmy O’Loughlin
was saying----”

“Go on,” said Mr. Goddard; “Jimmy O’Loughlin’s remarks are always
valuable.”

“He was saying that his lordship was within all the time. It was his
opinion--I’m not saying was he right or wrong--but it was his opinion
that his lordship didn’t want the police next or nigh him.”

“Jimmy O’Loughlin,” said Mr. Goddard, “appears to be as big a fool as
anybody about Clonmore.”




CHAPTER XI


Wilkins was a little puzzled when he opened the door to Mr. Goddard.
His orders were definite. Lord Manton was not at home when the police
called. Mr. Goddard in his uniform, complete to the sword, the whistle
and the spurs, was undeniably a policeman. But Wilkins was a good
servant, a very good servant. He was accustomed to interpreting his
orders as well as obeying them. He knew that Mr. Goddard was a superior
kind of policeman. He dined occasionally at Clonmore Castle, and
Wilkins waited on him. After a moment’s hesitation, Wilkins offered to
go and find out whether Lord Manton was at home or not. Mr. Goddard
was shown into a large, desolate drawing-room, and left there. Wilkins
was glad afterwards that he had appreciated the difference in standing
between a district inspector and a sergeant. It appeared that Lord
Manton was quite willing to see this visitor. Mr. Goddard was shown
into the library.

“Sit down,” said Lord Manton. “I’m very glad to see you. You’ll stay
and dine, won’t you? Since poor O’Grady left us I haven’t had a soul to
speak to at meals.”

“It was about Dr. O’Grady’s disappearance that I called to see you,”
said Mr. Goddard.

“There’s no use coming to me about that. I’m a magistrate, I know; but
I very seldom act. Why not go to Jimmy O’Loughlin? He loves signing
papers.”

“I’m rather puzzled over the case. The fact is----”

“My advice to you is to leave it alone. Don’t do anything. Masterly
inactivity is plainly the policy for you.”

“That’s all well enough. I’d be very glad to leave it alone. There’s
nothing I’d like better. But the fact is, I can’t. I’m more or less
pledged to---- My hand has been, so to speak, forced.”

“Had a visit from Miss Blow?”

“Yes.”

“She’s a wonderful woman. She was here yesterday; spent half an hour
with me in this very room.”

“She’s a very good-looking girl,” said Mr. Goddard.

“She is. I admit that. Her eyes, for instance. Grey, I thought them;
but they looked quite blue in certain lights; and a very good figure,
a remarkable figure. All the same I couldn’t have her settling herself
down for good and all in my house. I had to get her out of it somehow.
I gave her a note for Sergeant Farrelly.”

“Oh! That’s the meaning of your note. It rather puzzled me.”

“I’m afraid it must have rather puzzled Sergeant Farrelly too. I felt
sorry for him; but what could I do? She evidently meant to stay here
till I gave her a note of the sort she wanted. I thought it better to
shift the responsibility of dealing with her on to the sergeant. After
all, he’s paid for looking into things of the kind. I’m not.”

“The sergeant sent her on to me. It was extremely awkward. She cried
like anything.”

“I thought she’d have cried here,” said Lord Manton; “but she didn’t.
Did you comfort her?”

“No, I didn’t. At least I suppose I did in the end. I didn’t know what
to do. I’m not a married man, and I’m not accustomed----”

“How did you comfort her in the end? It would interest me very much to
hear, if the details are of the sort that will bear repeating without
giving Miss Blow away. Did you hold a pocket-handkerchief to her eyes?”

“No, nothing of that kind. I----” Mr. Goddard hesitated.

“Go on,” said Lord Manton. “I’ll treat whatever you say as strictly
confidential.”

“Well, I promised to do what she asked.”

“Do you mean to say that you’ve pledged yourself to go searching the
country for Dr. O’Grady’s body?”

“I couldn’t help it. What on earth else could I do?”

“And when do you start?”

“I don’t mean to start at all.”

Lord Manton pretended not to hear this remark.

“Do the thing in style if you do it at all,” he said. “Get bloodhounds.
I’ll give you the address of a man in England who breeds them. Fish out
an old sock of the doctor’s; let the bloodhound get the scent, and then
we’ll be off across country.”

“I don’t mean to do any such fool thing.”

“We’ll have glorious paragraphs in all the papers,” said Lord Manton.
“MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE OF A DOCTOR. VIGOROUS ACTION OF THE ROYAL
IRISH CONSTABULARY. DISTRICT INSPECTOR GODDARD THINKS HE HAS A CLUE.
BLOODHOUNDS USED. FIANCEE IN TEARS. Your portrait will appear
along with Miss Blow’s.”

“It’s all very fine to laugh,” said Mr. Goddard; “but of course I’m not
going----”

“You’ll have to. You’ve promised. You can’t go back on a promise made
to a lady. Her portrait will be published in the papers and everybody
will see how charming she is. You’ll be an object of universal hatred
and contempt if you go back on your word.”

“If ever it gets into the papers at all, you’ll look quite as great a
fool as I shall. Your note will be published. And, after all, you know,
the girl has something to say for herself. The doctor’s gone. Now, why
the devil did he go, and where has he gone to?”

“Can’t you give a guess at his motives?”

“No, I can’t. It wasn’t debt. Miss Blow told me herself that she was
ready to pay every penny that he owed.”

“No; it’s not debt. I thought it was at first, but it appears I was
wrong.”

“He didn’t drink,” said Mr. Goddard, “that ever I heard of. Besides,
even if he did, that would be no reason for bolting. Whisky’s as plenty
here as anywhere in the world.”

“No; it’s not drink. Try the other thing. There’s only one more. ‘Love,
or debt, or whisky’--you know the old saying. If it isn’t either of the
last two, it must be the first.”

“Love!” said Mr. Goddard.

“Precisely.”

“But, hang it all! Miss Blow’s quite ready to marry him.”

“Too ready,” said Lord Manton; “that’s my point.”

Mr. Goddard thought hard for a couple of minutes.

“Do you mean to suggest,” he said at last, “that he’s run away from
her?”

“In the absence of any other conceivable reason for his bolting,” said
Lord Manton, “I am unwillingly driven to the conclusion that he wants
to escape from Miss Blow.”

“But, hang it all! why should he? The girl’s uncommonly good-looking.”

“Good looks aren’t everything,” said Lord Manton; “when you come to
my time of life, you’ll understand that. Just put yourself in the
doctor’s place for a minute. You’ve had some little experience of Miss
Blow. So have I. But the poor doctor knew her a great deal better than
we do. Just think of what his feelings must have been when he heard
that she was coming over here to pay his debts. He’d be bound to marry
her straight off after that. And then--just think of sitting down to
breakfast every morning opposite a young woman of her character. I
admit her good looks, but she’s masterful. She’d bully a prize-fighter.
The poor doctor wouldn’t have had the ghost of a chance, especially as
married life would begin by her paying his debts. That would give her
the whip hand of him at once; and she’s just the sort of girl who would
make the most of her opportunities.”

“I don’t know--it’s possible, of course.”

“It’s certain, man. Be reasonable. Here’s a fact, a perfectly
undeniable fact. The doctor’s gone. Unless you’re going to adopt Miss
Blow’s hypothesis----”

“Oh, he’s not murdered, of course. I know that.”

“Very well, then, my explanation of his disappearance is the only one
that’s left. And it’s quite a probable one in itself. Nine men out of
ten in the doctor’s position would do exactly what he’s done.”

“Then what the devil am I to do?”

“You’re in a deuced awkward position. I don’t know what the end of it
will be. The authorities certainly won’t stand your taking the police
away from their ordinary duties, and setting them to scour the country
for the body of a man who isn’t dead. There’d be questions asked in
Parliament about it, and all sorts of fuss. Besides, you’d look such an
ass.”

“I know I should.”

“All the same, you’re in for it now. Unless you choose to go and tell
Miss Blow the truth. She might believe you, though I very much doubt
it.”

“I couldn’t possibly do that. No man could tell a girl that her----
But, look here, Lord Manton, your theory may be all very well so far as
O’Grady is concerned; but there’s another man gone now.”

“Patsy Devlin,” said Lord Manton. “I heard about that.”

“Do you think he has run away through fear of his wife?”

“No, I don’t. There are plenty of other ways of accounting for his
disappearance. Besides, in the case of Mrs. Devlin--you know her,
perhaps?”

“No; I never set eyes on the woman in my life.”

“Well, she’s not equal to Miss Blow in personal appearance; but she has
a certain charm of her own. You wouldn’t meet a quieter, less obtrusive
sort of woman anywhere. Nobody would run away from her unless he was
forced to. You take my word for it, Patsy will send for her to follow
him wherever he’s gone to. I knew both Patsy and his wife well, and
they always got on splendidly together. The poor fellow was something
of a _protégé_ of mine. I think he regarded me as a friend, and was
inclined to confide in me. I gave him a letter of recommendation to the
Board of Guardians, at the time of the election of the inspector of
sheep dipping.”

“I understood from Sergeant Farrelly,” said Mr. Goddard, “that the man
was rather a blackguard.”

“A horrid blackguard,” said Lord Manton. “That’s why I didn’t want them
to elect him.”

“But I thought you said----”

“So I did; but there’s no use discussing that now. It’s all over and
done with. Poor Patsy will never inspect the dipping of a single sheep
now. Besides, it’s almost dinner-time. You’ll stay, of course. Never
mind about dressing.”

Mr. Goddard was tempted. Lord Manton would give him a good dinner;
Jimmy O’Loughlin--and the choice lay between the two--would almost
certainly give him a bad one. Inclination struggled with conscience. In
the end conscience prevailed.

“I can’t,” he said. “I must see Miss Blow this evening.”

“Oh, of course, if you have an appointment with Miss Blow--I suppose
the poor doctor won’t mind now.”

“You’re quite wrong. I haven’t that sort of an appointment at all. The
simple fact is that I’m afraid of her. If I don’t see her and manage to
keep her quiet somehow, she’ll be over at the barrack again making a
nuisance of herself. You couldn’t tell what she’d do.”

“She might take it into her head that you were murdered, and set
everybody searching for your body.”

“She might do anything. That’s the reason I won’t stay to dine with
you, though I’d like to.”

“Good night,” said Lord Manton. “Let me know how things go on; and if
you are driven to bloodhounds, remember that I can put you on to the
best in England.”

When Mr. Goddard got back to the hotel, he found that his
self-sacrifice was wasted. Miss Blow had retired to her room for the
night.

“It could be,” said Jimmy O’Loughlin, “that the young lady was tired.
‘Bridgy,’ says she, when she came in, ‘I’m off up to my bed; and I’d be
thankful to you if you’d bring me up a cup of tea when it’s convenient
to Mrs. O’Loughlin to wet it.’”

This did not sound like a thing Miss Blow would have said. Mr. Goddard
felt that Jimmy O’Loughlin was adding a varnish of politeness to the
original remark. The next words reassured him. There was at least a
foundation of fact beneath the version of the story which he had heard.

“‘And take care,’ says she, ‘that the kettle’s boiling, for the last
cup you made for me was poison, and smoked at that.’”

The words were not yet the words of Miss Blow, but the meaning might
very well have been hers.

“She’s mighty particular about her tea,” said Jimmy. “She has the life
fair plagued out of Bridgy; not but what Bridgy deserves it. And what
would you be wishing for yourself, Mr. Goddard?”

Mr. Goddard wished that he had accepted Lord Manton’s invitation. Since
it appeared that Miss Blow was safely in her room, perhaps actually in
bed, he might just as well have dined in comfort at Clonmore Castle.
But he did not make this reply to Jimmy O’Loughlin. He said that what
he was wishing for himself was a chop and a bottle of porter. He might
have said whisky instead of porter, but he knew that there was no hope
of getting anything else in the way of food except the chop. Jimmy
O’Loughlin accepted the order and ushered his guest into the commercial
room, which happened to be empty.

In due time Bridgy entered with the chop. It was served on a plate
with a round tin cover over it; a cover which meant well, but failed
to keep the chop warm. Mr. Goddard contemplated the frozen grease
which clung round the edges of the plate, and then, lest it too should
freeze, plunged his knife and fork into the chop. Bridgy uncorked his
bottle of porter, and set it on the table beside a dish of potatoes.
Yellow froth oozed rapidly from the mouth of the bottle and ran down
on to the tablecloth. It added one more brown stain to those which
the last four commercial travellers, eating in haste, had made with
Worcester sauce, mustard, or gravy. Mr. Goddard, who had a fastidious
dislike of dirty table linen, seized the bottle, and then discovered
that he had no tumbler. He set the bottle in the fender, and rang the
bell furiously. Bridgy half opened the door, and put her head into the
room. The rest of her body remained outside. This was her ordinary way
of presenting herself to people who rang bells. She looked as if she
expected to have plates thrown at her, and meant to be ready for a
swift retreat.

“A tumbler,” said Mr. Goddard.

Bridgy smiled pleasantly. “It’s hardly ever,” she said, “I lay the
table but I do be forgetting something. It might be the salt, or--have
you the salt? Glory be to God! you have, and the spoon along with it.”

There was a pool of considerable size in the fender round the porter
bottle, and the froth was still oozing out persistently.

“A tumbler,” said Mr. Goddard again.

His tone startled Bridgy. She disappeared, closing the door behind her.
In a few minutes she was back again without the tumbler.

“Where is it?” said Mr. Goddard.

“The mistress is giving it a bit of a rinse the way it’ll be clean for
you; and I came back to tell you that Mr. Moriarty from the barrack
below is at the door, and he says he wants to see you. I’m thinking
it’s a telegram he has in his hand.”

Mr. Goddard rose. “Get a cloth,” he said, “if there is a cloth in the
house----”

“Sure there is,” murmured Bridgy, “there’s dozens.”

“And mop up that abominable mess. Take the chop down to the kitchen and
heat it up again. Get another bottle of porter; and for heaven’s sake
let me have a meal I can eat when I come back.”

He went out and discovered Constable Moriarty, who had, as Bridgy
observed, a telegram in his hand.

“It came, sir,” said the constable, “and you just after leaving
Ballymoy with the young lady. The sergeant beyond said I’d better bring
it with me the way you’d get it at once, in case it might be important.”

Mr. Goddard opened it. “From Inspector-General, Dublin Castle,” he
read. “Party of Members of Parliament arrive Clonmore to-morrow, noon,
from Dublin. On tour. Provide vehicles to meet train. Show every
attention. Five in party.”

“Damn it!” said Mr. Goddard.

Every one in Ireland had heard of the tour of the Members of
Parliament. It was well advertised by means of paragraphs in all
the daily papers, so well advertised that an exaggerated opinion
was formed in Ireland of the importance of the party. It was
generally believed--and the language of the newspapers fostered the
delusion--that at least two Cabinet Ministers were coming, ten or
twelve influential politicians, and that more than the usual number of
journalists would be in attendance. It was felt that the tour offered
a unique opportunity for producing a lasting effect on English public
opinion. There was, consequently, a severe struggle in Dublin among
the numerous people who wanted to conduct the strangers round Ireland.
Not only all the heads of all the Boards and Departments, but all the
Presidents and Secretaries of the Leagues and Associations unconnected
with the Government were anxious to secure the honour. In the end it
fell to a high official, who, in order to obtain it, made what was felt
to be an unfair use of the influence he possessed in England. When he
found at the last moment that the party consisted after all of only two
Members of Parliament, and they men of inferior calibre and no real
standing, he was disgusted and withdrew his offer of a motor car. When
he found, further, that there were to be no journalists, and that the
Members of Parliament were to be accompanied only by three women, two
wives and one aunt, he lost his temper and offered the party to any
League which liked to apply for it. In the end he made over his whole
responsibility to the police. The party went from place to place in
the usual way. It was met at railway stations by polite inspectors of
police, allowed to ask questions of the people who could be relied upon
to supply the proper answers, and given every opportunity of seeing
with its own eyes the things that inquiring Englishmen ought to see.
The Members enjoyed themselves immensely, and insisted on prolonging
their tour after all the places originally marked out for them had been
visited. Then the Inspector-General of Police, who was getting tired
of making arrangements for them, sent them to Clonmore. It was a very
distant place, the terminus of the line of railway on which it stood,
and it was supposed that no harm could possibly come of their visiting
it. They were told to drive from Clonmore round a particularly
desolate coast, to stop at hotels which were quite abominable, and to
pick up another railway fifty miles off. The Inspector-General reckoned
that the trip would take at least four days, and that at the end of it
the party would have had enough of Ireland. In any case he would not
be bothered with them again until they reached the fifty miles distant
railway station.

When Mr. Goddard read the telegram he was greatly irritated. He did not
want to conduct a party of Members of Parliament round Clonmore, and
their coming would certainly not help him to deal with Miss Blow. He
foresaw frightful complications. It was possible that the Members of
Parliament, rejoicing in the unexpected discovery of a side of Irish
life hitherto unknown to them, might insist on joining in the search
for the body of Dr. O’Grady. He determined, if he possibly could, to
prevent their arrival. He went back into the hotel and wrote a telegram.

“Inspector-General of Police, Dublin. This district quite unsuited
to Members of Parliament. Am investigating cases of mysterious
disappearance. Inhabitants greatly excited. Disaffection feared. Send
party elsewhere.”

“Take this,” he said to Constable Moriarty, “and dispatch it at once.”

“The office shuts at eight, sir,” said the constable; “but I’ll see
that it’s sent off first thing in the morning.”

Mr. Goddard looked at his watch. It was twenty minutes to nine o’clock.
At eight the next morning the party would leave Dublin. He swore again
and tore up his telegram.




CHAPTER XII


Mr. Goddard met Miss Blow at breakfast next morning, and nerved himself
to the task of telling her that the search for Dr. O’Grady’s body must
be put off for twenty-four hours on account of the visit of the Members
of Parliament to the district. He did not know exactly how she would
take the news. He half hoped she might get angry and say something
which would give him an excuse for washing his hands of her affairs.
He feared that she might cry again as she had cried in his dining-room
the day before. He did not want to comfort her under Jimmy O’Loughlin’s
roof. Either Bridgy or Mrs. O’Loughlin might enter the room at any
moment. Even Jimmy himself, under some pretext, might interrupt the
affecting scene. Mr. Goddard was conscious that an account of his
dealing with a tearful Miss Blow given by Jimmy O’Loughlin would add
to the gaiety of the neighbourhood. His hope, as it turned out, was
quite vain and his fear unfounded. Miss Blow took the news in a most
unexpected way.

“I’m glad to hear it,” she said.

Mr. Goddard was surprised. Miss Blow explained herself, and he came to
see that she had not given up her plan of a search party. It appeared
that she had a very high regard for Members of Parliament. Next to the
Habeas Corpus Act, which did not apply in Dr. O’Grady’s case because no
one knew who had the body, and trial by jury, a notoriously uncertain
thing in Ireland, she looked to Parliament as the great safeguard of
individual rights and liberties.

It became obvious to Mr. Goddard that Miss Blow expected the touring
Members to take up her case at once and vigorously, perhaps to make
a special law about it on the spot. He tried to explain that these
particular Members were travelling unofficially. Miss Blow did not
seem to think that fact made any difference. A Member of Parliament,
according to her view, is a Member of Parliament, whether he is
actually delivering a vote at Westminster or not. Mr. Goddard then gave
it as his opinion that there were too few Members of Parliament in the
party to do anything effective.

“It isn’t,” he said, “as if we had enough of them to constitute a
majority of the House.”

Miss Blow, by way of reply, stated her intention of meeting the party
at the railway station. She said she was sure that as soon as they
heard her story they would bestir themselves just as Lord Manton
and Mr. Goddard had, but rather more vigorously. She even suggested
that a telegram might be sent to the Prime Minister. Mr. Goddard
discouraged her. He felt that he was being rapidly edged into a very
awkward position. It was utterly impossible to calculate the effect
that a story like Miss Blow’s might produce on an enthusiastic Member
of Parliament. Almost anything might happen. Publicity, newspaper
paragraphs, and questions in the House of Commons would be certainties.
And he had been warned to show the approaching party every civility. It
would certainly not be civil to plunge them into a vortex of mysterious
crime. The Inspector-General would naturally be vexed if such a
thing happened, and Mr. Goddard’s prospects of promotion, never very
brilliant, would be injured.

“I don’t think it would do,” he said, “for you to meet them at the
railway station.”

“Why not?”

The Miss Blow at the other side of the breakfast table with a teapot in
front of her and a decisive way of handling it seemed quite different
from the Miss Blow who had wept so pleasingly in his dining-room the
day before.

“I rather think,” he said feebly, “that they have ladies with them.”

“All the better,” said Miss Blow.

“And their tour is quite unofficial. We’re not supposed to know that
they are Members of Parliament.”

“But we do know,” said Miss Blow.

The argument ended by Mr. Goddard promising to lay the case before the
Members. It was only by making the promise that he was able to induce
Miss Blow to refrain from going to the railway station. Having made
it, he slipped out of the room. It was after ten o’clock, and he still
had to make arrangements for the comfort of the party. He found Jimmy
O’Loughlin in the yard behind the hotel.

“There’s a party coming in by the train to-day,” he said, “and I
want a brake and four horses to meet them. They’ll be driving to
Pool-a-donagh.”

“Is it the Lord Lieutenant?” said Jimmy O’Loughlin.

“No, it’s not. It’s a private party.”

“I asked the question,” said Jimmy, “because, if it was the Lord
Lieutenant itself, he couldn’t get the brake.”

“Oh, well, that’s all right. It’s not the Lord Lieutenant.”

“And if the Lord Lieutenant wouldn’t get it,” said Jimmy, “you may take
your oath that another won’t.”

“And why not?”

“Because the two front wheels is off the only brake there is in the
town, and Patsy Devlin has them up at the forge fixing them, and he’s
gone from us. That’s why.”

“And there isn’t another brake?”

“There is not.”

“There are five in the party,” said Mr. Goddard. “We’ll have to get two
cars.”

“It’s a good eight miles to Rosivera,” said Jimmy, “and better than ten
on from that to Pool-a-donagh. I wouldn’t say that there was a horse in
the town fit to do the journey with four on the car, and there’ll have
to be four on one of the cars, if there’s five in the party, that’ll be
counting the drivers. My own mare was over at Ballymoy yesterday with
Constable Moriarty and the doctor’s young lady. It’s a day’s rest she
ought to have by rights, and not to be going off on the road again.”

“It can’t be helped,” said Mr. Goddard. “I must have the horses.”

“There isn’t another gentleman about the country,” said Jimmy, “that
I’d do it for only yourself; but seeing that the party is friends of
your own, I’ll let my mare go, and I’ll get Patsy Devlin’s grey pony
that was promised to Mr. Byrne for the day to be carting home the turf,
the same pony that the priest was thinking of buying. It’s little use
Patsy’s widow will have for a pony now her husband’s gone from her, the
creature. I don’t know another that you could put under a side car for
a gentleman to sit behind, and it’s badly able for the road the grey
pony will be this minute.”

“Give her a feed of oats between this and the time the train comes in,”
said Mr. Goddard.

“I will; and I’ll see if I can’t get the loan of the priest’s cushions
for the old car. The ones that are on it are terrible bad.”

Jimmy O’Loughlin was certainly not guilty of raising any false hopes
about the quality of his cattle or his vehicles; but Mr. Goddard had
a feeling of cold disgust when he saw the two cars standing together
outside the railway station. Jimmy O’Loughlin’s mare was the better of
the two animals, and she looked extraordinary feeble and depressed. The
grey pony, which should have been drawing home Mr. Byrne’s turf, was
clearly unfit for the journey before him. He may have been fretting
for the loss of Patsy Devlin. He may have been insufficiently fed by
Mrs. Devlin. He looked as if his spirit was completely broken either by
starvation or great grief. The cars were dilapidated, and the harness
evidently untrustworthy. On the other hand the drivers were full of
life and vigour. They looked forward to receiving handsome tips from
the strangers at the end of their day’s work, and were quite prepared
to earn them by saying all the things which tourists expect from Irish
car drivers. They were primed with stories of the most popular kind
about every point of interest along the road. They had a store of bulls
and humorous repartees ready to their lips. They touched their hats
jauntily to Mr. Goddard as he passed them. He was a benefactor, and
they owed him respect and thanks.

The train drew up at the platform. The door of a first-class
compartment was flung open, and a gentleman bounded from it. His face
expressed a feeling of irresponsible holiday happiness. His movements
and the pose of his body suggested abundant vitality and energy. He
turned and assisted three ladies to alight. One, the youngest of them,
he lifted out in his arms and deposited three or four paces from the
carriage door. He laughed merrily as he did so. She also laughed. The
other two ladies, who had not been embraced, laughed. The holiday
spirit was strong in all of them. Then, still laughing, he turned to
the carriage again, and received from some one inside a number of
bags, boxes, coats and parcels. He took them two by two and laid them
in a long row at the feet of the ladies. Then a second gentleman got
out of the train, a long, lean man, of sallow complexion and serious
expression.

Mr. Goddard felt that it was time to introduce himself. He approached
the party cautiously, skirting an outlying hold-all. The first
gentleman, who was also a good deal the younger of the two, spied him
coming and bounded forward to meet him.

“You are Mr. Goddard,” he said joyously. “I’m sure you must be. I’m
delighted to meet you. My name is Dick, surname, you know. Christian
name similar--Richard Dick, M.P., not yet in the Cabinet.”

He had to the highest possible degree that air of breezy joviality
assumed by many Englishmen when they cross St. Geor

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/44751