Title: The Search Party
Author: Birmingham, George A., 1865-1950
Language: English
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  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. George’s Channel. It
was as if, having at last reached the land of frolicsome recklessness,
he was determined to show himself capable of wild excess and a very
extremity of Celtic fervour.

Mr. Goddard bowed, and murmured that he felt it a pleasure and an
honour to make Mr. Dick’s acquaintance.

“This,” said Mr. Dick, “is Mr. Sanders. Sorrowful Sanders we call him,
on account of the expression of his face. He’s not in the Cabinet
either; but he soon will be.” He caught Mr. Goddard by the arm and
whispered a clearly audible aside. “He’s a Scot, and that’s nearly the
same thing, you know.”

“Shut up, Dick!” said Mr. Sanders.

“How can you talk such nonsense?” said the eldest of the three ladies,
whose appearance suggested some strength of character, and suddenly
brought back Miss Blow to Mr. Goddard’s mind.

“This,” said Mr. Dick, indicating the lady, “is Miss Farquharson,
Sanders’ aunt. This”--he pointed to another lady--“is Mrs. Sanders,
his wife. And this”--he drew forward by the hand the lady whom he had
lifted out of the carriage--“is Mrs. Dick, the ‘woman that owns me.’
Isn’t that the way you express it in this country?”

Mr. Goddard bowed three times, and then glanced doubtfully at the bags
which lay on the platform.

“I’ve only been able to get two cars for you,” he said. “Have you much
more luggage in the van?”

“Oh, but an Irish car can carry any quantity of luggage,” said Miss
Farquharson. “I’ve seen them absolutely packed, and still there was
room for more.”

Mr. Goddard admitted that this was true; but he thought of Patsy
Devlin’s grey pony and the long miles between Clonmore and
Pool-a-donagh.

“And if there isn’t room,” said Mrs. Dick, “I’d like to sit in the
middle--on the well--isn’t that what they call it?--with my back
against the driver. I saw a boy sitting like that the other day, and it
looked lovely.”

“It’s all right,” said Mr. Dick. “We have two bikes with us. Sanders
and I will ride. You shall have my machine, Sanders, and I’ll take my
wife’s. Come along. The spin will do you all the good in the world.
We’ll pedal along and let the ladies have the cars.”

Mr. Sanders protested strongly against this plan. He had, he said, a
weak heart, and cycling did not agree with him. He was overborne by a
command from his aunt, and towed down the platform towards the luggage
van by Mr. Dick. Miss Farquharson confided to Mr. Goddard that her
nephew’s heart was not nearly so bad as he thought it was, and that
the exercise would do him good. She was, unquestionably, a lady of
commanding character.

“He’s so full of energy,” said Mrs. Dick, watching her husband’s
progress admiringly. “I say the air of Ireland has got into his head.”

“Is he not so energetic at home?” asked Mr. Goddard.

“Indeed he isn’t. Just fancy if he was!”

She giggled convulsively at the thought. It was evident that Mr.
Dick, though not a Scot, belonged to some part of the country where
decorum of demeanour and a certain gravity are expected from Members of
Parliament.

“‘Fare thee well,’” shouted Mr. Dick from the end of the platform,
“‘and if for ever, still for ever fare thee well.’”

He was wheeling the two bicycles out of the station, and was followed
by the obviously reluctant Mr. Sanders.

“Richard, Richard!” said his wife.

Mr. Dick paused and looked round.

“Have you got your sandwiches? Don’t go without your sandwiches. I’m
sure they’re in my hold-all.”

But Mr. Dick patted his coat pocket triumphantly. He had the
sandwiches. He was not the kind of man, so his attitude suggested,
the feeble and inefficient kind of man, who goes off without his
sandwiches. A moment later, having compelled Mr. Sanders to mount, he
was cycling gaily down the road towards Clonmore.

“Richard, Richard!” shouted his wife again. But it was too late. Her
voice did not reach him.

“I’m sure,” she said, turning to Mr. Goddard, “that he doesn’t know the
way. He has never been here before. He’ll get lost. Whatever are we to
do?”

Mr. Goddard consoled her. He pointed out that Mr. Dick had started in
the right direction; that it was generally possible to make inquiries
when in doubt; that, as a matter of fact, once clear of Clonmore, there
was only one road on which anybody could ride a bicycle, and that it
led straight to Pool-a-donagh. Miss Farquharson helped to reassure her.

“Where there’s a will there’s a way,” she said sententiously.

“Do stop him,” said Mrs. Dick. “You must stop him. He’s got my
pocket-handkerchief in his pocket. I gave it to him to keep for me in
the train.”

“I can’t,” said Mr. Goddard. “He’s gone. He’s out of sight. Even if
he wasn’t, I don’t think that I could stop him. But I can lend you a
pocket-handkerchief. I have two. This one is quite clean.”

Then came the business of packing the ladies and their belongings on
the cars. Mr. Goddard, after consultation with the station master and a
porter, gave all the luggage to the driver of Patsy Devlin’s grey pony.
Jimmy O’Loughlin’s mare was the more likely of the two animals to reach
Pool-a-donagh, and the station master pointed out that if there were
to be a break down it would be better for the ladies to arrive without
their luggage than for the luggage to arrive while the ladies were left
on the side of the road. Mrs. Dick, recovering her spirits, insisted
on carrying out her plan of sitting on the well of the car. There was
a small crowd outside the railway station, which watched with reverent
wonder her climbing and wriggling. She waved both hands to Mr. Goddard
as soon as she had settled herself comfortably, and was very nearly
thrown off the car when the mare started with a jerk. Afterwards she
clung to Miss Farquharson and Mrs. Sanders, who sat one on each side of
her.

It was not until the two cars were well on their way down the road that
Mr. Goddard recollected the promise he had made to Miss Blow. He had
really intended to fulfil it. He had it in his mind to say something
of a light and jocular kind about the disappearance of the doctor,
something which would redeem the letter of his promise without exciting
the Members of Parliament. It was not, he reflected, in any way his
fault that he had failed. He had no opportunity of speaking. Mr. Dick’s
impetuous energy had made it quite impossible to approach the subject
of Dr. O’Grady. But, while his own conscience absolved him, he was
quite sure that he would not be able to explain himself satisfactorily
to Miss Blow. She would not believe that Members of Parliament could
possibly behave as Mr. Dick had behaved. She would not understand
the effect of the Irish air upon naturally staid men. There was some
comfort for him in the thought that the cars, with Mrs. Dick’s legs
swinging off the foremost one, must have passed the hotel, and that
Miss Blow might have seen for herself that the party was in no mood for
investigating murders. The bicyclists, unless they deliberately turned
aside before reaching the town, must also have passed the hotel. Mr.
Dick very probably sang some song of the open road as he sped through
Clonmore. Miss Blow might have heard it, might have seen for herself
the sort of people these tourists were. If she did, Mr. Goddard’s
reputation as a man of honour would be safe. She could not possibly
expect him to redeem his promise.

Then a fresh and most depressing thought attacked him. The Members of
Parliament had come and were gone; but there was another promise of
his unfulfilled. Miss Blow would certainly expect him to start at once
and search for Dr. O’Grady. He knew that he could not postpone the
matter any longer. She would pin him to his word, insist upon immediate
action, refuse to rest satisfied with excuses. He walked very slowly
down the hill from the station.

A cowardly way of escape presented itself to him at the last moment.
His horse and trap were in the hotel yard. If he could get them
without being seen by Miss Blow he might drive back to Ballymoy. Miss
Blow, since the Members of Parliament had got the only available
cars, could not follow him. Forgetful of honour and chivalry, of Miss
Blow’s tear-stained face, of the pressure of her hand, of the kiss
which he had nearly given to her glove, he made up his mind to fly. He
approached the hotel very cautiously.

Like a thirsty man on a Sunday who has not been able to travel the
number of miles which make drinking legal, he climbed over a back wall
into the yard. He glanced nervously at the windows, hoping that Miss
Blow’s room looked out on the front and that she would be expecting him
to reach the hotel along the road. He caught sight of Bridgy staring
out of the scullery window. She had watched him climb the wall and was
most anxious to discover what he intended to do next. It seemed to her
unnatural that an officer of police should enter an hotel in such a
way. Mr. Goddard, taking shelter in the stable, beckoned to her through
the door. Filled with curiosity, she crossed the yard and joined him in
the stable.

“Bridgy,” he said, “here’s a shilling for you. Is Mr. O’Loughlin
inside?”

“He is, sir,” said Bridgy.

“Then tell him to come out here. I want to speak to him.”

“Is it out to the stable?”

Mr. Goddard had sacrificed his own self-respect when he yielded to
temptation and made up his mind to escape. He now flung away all hope
of ever being respected by Bridgy.

“Yes; here in the stable. And if you meet Miss Blow, don’t tell her
where I am.”

“I will not. Why would I? But sure----”

“Go on now, like a good girl, and don’t waste your time talking to me.”

Jimmy O’Loughlin was a man of tact and good manners. He greeted Mr.
Goddard cheerfully as if then were nothing surprising in the choice of
a stable for the scene of an important interview. He had been warned
by Bridgy that Mr. Goddard, for some reason, stood in terror of Miss
Blow; but he made no allusion to her. He opened the conversation with a
remark on a safe, indifferent topic.

“Them was queer people,” he said, alluding to the Members of Parliament
and their party.

“I want my horse and trap,” said Mr. Goddard, “and I want to pay my
bill. I am going back to Ballymoy at once.”

“I wouldn’t say but you’re right,” said Jimmy, “if them ones is likely
to be back here in the course of the day.”

“It’s not that. I don’t mind about them. It’s business that’s taking me
home--important business.”

This was too much for Jimmy O’Loughlin. His tact and manners were good,
but he was not going to allow Mr. Goddard to escape without an allusion
to Miss Blow.

“The doctor’s young lady is within, waiting for you,” he said.

“I know that; but I haven’t time to talk to her now. In fact, it is
most important that I should get away without her seeing me--on account
of my business.”

“I wouldn’t say but you might be right there too,” said Jimmy.

They set to work together and harnessed Mr. Goddard’s horse. They
led him into the yard and put him between the shafts of the trap as
silently as possible.

“I’m thinking,” said Jimmy, “that maybe it would be better for you not
to be paying me the trifle that’s due for your bed and your dinner
until the next time you’re over.”

“Very well. Then I’ll be able to start at once.”

“You will. And, what’s more, when the young lady asks me what’s
happened to you, I’ll be able to say that I don’t know because you went
off without paying your bill.”

Jimmy O’Loughlin had a sensitive conscience. He could lie without
hesitation when circumstances required it of him, but he preferred,
where possible, to deceive without departing from the literal truth.



CHAPTER XIII


Mr. Dick, who was a man of energy, rode fast. Mr. Sanders toiled behind
him, but was able to keep him in sight because Mr. Dick dismounted
and waited for him at the top of every hill. The day was hot, and
there was very little breeze. Neither of the men was in good training.
Both of them became thirsty. Five miles outside of Clonmore the road
crosses a small river. Mr. Dick stopped on the bridge, and, when Mr.
Sanders overtook him, proposed that they should take a drink. They
made their way down to the stream, lay on their stomachs, and sucked
up large quantities of luke-warm water. Then they rode on again, and,
as might have been expected, became much hotter and thirstier than
they were before. Mr. Dick stopped again, this time at a pool. Mr.
Sanders, though very thirsty, expressed doubts about the wholesomeness
of the water. Mr. Dick explained briefly that, as there was no human
habitation in sight, the pool could not possibly be polluted by drains.
Then he lay down and drank as eagerly as a camel at an oasis. The pool
was shallow, and the violence of his sucking stirred up a good deal
of mud. Mr. Sanders, realizing that every moment’s delay increased
the chance of his getting typhoid fever from his draught, chose the
cleanest corner of the pool and drank a great deal more than was good
for him. The water of the pool was even warmer than that of the river.

Then it was discovered that one of the tyres of the bicycle ridden by
Mr. Dick had burst. He had pumped it too vehemently, and the heat of
the sun had swelled the air inside until the strain was too great for
the cover. Both tool-bags were examined, but no materials for repair
were found in them. Even under these circumstances Mr. Dick remained
cheerful.

“We’ll walk on,” he said, “until we come to a police barrack. We’re
bound to come to one soon.”

“What good will that be?”

Mr. Sanders did not want to walk on if he could help it.

“In Ireland,” said Mr. Dick, “the police are experts at repairing
bicycles. One of the people we met last week told me that. He was an
inspector of something, and was always going about the country, so he’d
be sure to know.”

“In any case,” said Mr. Sanders, “there isn’t likely to be a police
barrack about here. There are no houses. We haven’t passed a single
human habitation for the last twenty minutes.”

Mr. Dick overruled this objection at once. He had been studying the
Irish question for a whole fortnight, and he thoroughly understood the
country.

“In Ireland,” he said, “the most likely place to find a police
barrack is where there are no houses. The reason for that is that the
uninhabited districts of the country are those from which the people
have been evicted. They naturally want to get back again, and so police
barracks are built to prevent them doing so. You will always find a
barrack where there are no people. A man who was greatly interested in
the land question told me that the day before yesterday.”

“I think,” said Mr. Sanders, “that I’ll sit down here and wait till
the cars overtake me. You can take your own bicycle and go on if you
like.”

“You’d better not, because the cars may never overtake you. We may be
on the wrong road altogether. I didn’t ask the way. I simply steered a
course by the sun like an explorer in central Africa.”

“What an ass you are, Dick!”

“Not an ass, Sanders, not an ass, an adventurer. I love risk for its
own sake. The blood of the ancient Bersekers is in my veins. I feel
like the man in the song ‘Fiddle and I,’ that is to say, in this case,

  ‘Biky and I
   Wandering by
   Over the world together.’

If you don’t come on with me, Sanders, you will get lost like a babe in
the wood, and then

  ‘When you are dead
   The robins so red
   Will take strawberry leaves and over you spread.’”

Mr. Sanders shrank from such a fate. Also he had sat down during the
discussion and felt rested. He agreed to go on. Mr. Dick, the Berseker
spirit strong in him, wheeled both bicycles. They climbed a long hill
and found walking even hotter work than bicycling. But they had their
reward. From the top of the hill the entrance gate and the trees of
Rosivera were visible.

“A sail, a sail!” cried Mr. Dick. “We are saved!

  ‘We shall hear the sweet music of speech,
    Nor finish our journey alone.’”

“It looks like a gentleman’s place,” said Mr. Sanders, “a dilapidated
gentleman’s place. I mean to say, of course, the dilapidated place of a
gentleman.”

Mr. Dick was not a stickler for the nice arrangement of adjectives.

“Of course,” he said, “it’s a dilapidated gentleman’s place. All
gentlemen’s places in Ireland are dilapidated. That is one of the
consequences of the recent land legislation.”

“Rents,” said Mr. Sanders, who took a special delight in all kinds of
figures, “were reduced twenty per cent. all round on an average at the
first fixing. Then they were reduced again by----”

“Come on,” said Mr. Dick. “The proprietor, whoever he is, must have
enough left to buy a repair outfit. Let’s go and borrow it.”

He had heard quite as much as he wanted to hear about rent fixing and
land purchase during the fortnight he had spent in Ireland. He did not
want to go into the matter again. It required intricate calculations,
and Mr. Dick had no taste for arithmetic. Mr. Sanders sighed and
followed his friend down the hill.

They passed through the gate of Rosivera and went down the avenue, Mr.
Dick leading the way with the two bicycles. Turning a corner, they came
suddenly upon a view of the house. Beyond it, at the bottom of the
lawn, lay the bay.

“Dilapidated!” said Mr. Sanders, in disgust. “I knew it would be
dilapidated, but I didn’t expect it to be as bad as this. It looks to
me as if it were uninhabited.”

Mr. Dick paid no attention to the appearance of the house. The sight of
the sea seemed to intoxicate him. He was very hot and very dusty. The
idea of bathing in cold water was delightful.

“We’ll have a swim,” he said. “First we’ll knock up the proprietor,
borrow the repair outfit, and mend the tyre. Then we’ll go round the
corner, out of sight of the house, and wallow in the briny wave.”

But Mr. Sanders was cautious, more cautious than he had been about
drinking the water out of the pool.

“You’ve no towel,” he said.

“What do we care for towels? We are primitive men, savages on our
native wild, cave dwellers of the paleolithic age. I should spurn a
towel if it was offered me.”

“That’s all very well for you, Dick; but I have a weak heart, and I
have to be careful. In the heated state in which I am at present, I
daren’t risk bathing, especially without a towel.”

“Then I’ll bathe by myself. You can get the bicycle repaired. By the
time you have it settled I shall be ready to start again.”

They reached the house. Mr. Dick commented, laughing, on the fact that
there was no electric bell. Mr. Sanders sighed at this fresh evidence
of dilapidation. There was no knocker either. Mr. Dick hammered on the
door with his fist until he thought he had made noise enough to attract
attention. Then he walked on towards the shore, leaving his friend
alone to enjoy the hospitality or face the wrath of the inmates of the
house. Mr. Sanders waited for some time and then knocked again. After
another pause he tried kicking the door. Then he rang both the bicycle
bells. At last he began to despair of attracting attention. Some
men, under the circumstances, would have gone away. Mr. Sanders was
persevering and little troubled with delicacy of feeling. He pushed
open the door and walked in.

Mr. Dick, yearning for a swim, soon found a spot which seemed
sufficiently secluded. It was not particularly attractive as a
bathing-place. The beach was covered with small rough stones; and, the
tide being out, there was a considerable stretch of beach. The water
near the shore was full of jellyfish and brown seaweed. But Mr. Dick
was too hot and too eager to care much about these inconveniences. His
desire was to get as quickly as possible into the sea. He undressed
beside a large stone which lay just above high-water mark. Then his
troubles began. He had never before walked on such trying stones.
The pain which they gave his feet caused him to stumble and fall
suddenly forward on his hands. Part of the journey he accomplished on
all-fours. The seaweed was a relief when he reached it. The jellyfish
were deliciously soft under his feet. He floundered out through them
and over them until the water reached his knees. Then he flung himself
forward and struck out. The weed brushed his limbs and body. The
jellyfish, incredible numbers of them, slipped past him.

“This,” he said, “is delicious.”

He got past the belt of weed and jellyfish into deep water. He shouted
aloud in his joy--a wild inarticulate whoop which went sounding across
the waters of the bay. He lay on his back. He kicked with his legs,
raising what seemed to him splendid fountains of water. He shouted
again. Then he swam further out, using a side stroke which he had
learned in a swimming-bath, burying his head each time his arm left
the water, and then turning his face up and snorting like a porpoise.
After awhile he lay on his back again and began to sing--

  “Rule, Britannia! Britannia rules the waves.”

The ditty was appropriate enough. Mr. Dick M.P., represented in
Rosivera Bay the world’s greatest maritime power, and he had, plainly,
so far got the better of the sea that it was obliged to bear him on its
breast and minister to his delight. He ruled it. There were, indeed, no
waves; but that was not Mr. Dick’s fault. If there had been waves, he
would have ruled them.

  “Rule, Britannia!” he sang again, “Britannia rules the waves.
   Britons never, never, never shall be slaves.”

Mr. Dick had a poor ear for music, and his rendering of the tune
was far from correct; but he had a fine voice and it rang out
satisfactorily. He felt more than ever like an ancient Berseker. His
song was a kind of triumphant challenge to man and nature alike.

“This,” he said breathlessly, when he had finished the song for the
third time, “is better than mending bicycles. I wonder how poor Sanders
is getting on?”

He wallowed round and faced the shore. He saw a man approaching from
the direction in which the house lay.

“Hullo--lo--o!” he shouted. “Coo--ee, Sanders!”

Then he saw that it was not Mr. Sanders. He came to the conclusion that
it must be one of the inhabitants of the house. He was perfectly right.
It was Mr. Red.

“Funny-looking old cock he is,” said Mr. Dick.

Mr. Red stalked majestically along the shore. Mr. Dick swam to meet
him. His heart was light. He broke into a song of greeting--

  “Come o’er the sea,
   Stranger to me,
   Mine through sunshine, storm and cloud!”

Mr. Red walked straight to the place where Mr. Dick’s clothes lay. It
seemed possible that he was bringing down a towel. Mr. Dick swam on
towards the shore, intending to express his gratitude for the civility.
Mr. Red reached the clothes, picked them up one by one and walked
away with them. Mr. Dick shouted after him, but without effect. He
swam for the shore as quickly as he could. If the proprietor of the
place objected to people bathing on the shore, Mr. Dick was prepared
to apologize. He would apologize humbly, get back his clothes, and
then point out that a notice ought to have been erected to warn the
public not to bathe. Mr. Red deposited the clothes on the grass at
some distance from the beach, turned round, and walked towards the sea
again. Mr. Dick felt bottom with his feet, and plunged forward until he
stood in water which only reached his knees. Mr. Red, standing on the
very brink of the sea, took a revolver out of his pocket and pointed it
at Mr. Dick.

“Come on shore,” he said.

By way of reply Mr. Dick sat down suddenly, rolled over on his side,
and lay with no part of him above water except his head. He did not
like standing naked in front of a revolver which might be loaded.

“Come!” said Mr. Red.

Mr. Dick put his head under water, and kept it there as long as he
could. When he came up, gasping, he saw the revolver still levelled at
him.

“Come at once,” said Mr. Red, “or I shall fire!”

Mr. Dick struggled to his feet and stumbled forward a few steps. Then
his self-respect, the self-respect which is the birthright of every
free-born Briton, asserted itself within him.

“I presume,” he said, speaking with a certain cold dignity, “that this
beach is private property, and that I have trespassed by bathing here.
If so, I offer my apologies; but I cannot refrain from saying at the
same time that the aggressive violence of your conduct----”

Mr. Red pulled the trigger of the revolver. A bullet struck the water
so close to Mr. Dick that his leg was splashed. He stopped short in his
protest and waded as rapidly as possible towards the shore. He pushed
his way through the seaweed and jellyfish and stood at last, a pitiful,
dripping figure, on dry land.

“Go on,” said Mr. Red, fingering the revolver.

The fear of instant death impelled Mr. Dick over the sharp stones. He
travelled rapidly for five or six yards, and then collapsed suddenly on
to all-fours.

“Go on quickly,” said Mr. Red.

Mr. Dick went on as quickly as he could on his hands and feet. He
looked like a large hairless ape of some bleached kind. Then, overcome
by the pain of both hands and feet, he sat down and faced Mr. Red.

“This is an outrage,” he said. “I protest against it in the strongest
possible manner. You have absolutely no right----”

“Get up,” said Mr. Red, “and precede me to the house.”

Mr. Dick got up with a groan. He was really suffering considerably.
The Berseker spirit, active in him during an earlier part of the day,
was almost dead. He staggered on a few steps. Then a new notion seized
him, a fear which was actually stronger than the fear of death. He
understood suddenly that he was not, as he had boasted, a primitive
man; that he was, on the contrary, highly civilized. He turned on Mr.
Red and faced the revolver without a tremor.

“I won’t go to the house without my clothes,” he said. “There may be
ladies. There may be servants.”

There was a determination in the way he spoke and in the expression of
his face which was quite unmistakable. Mr. Red tried to bully him, but
failed. No threat was of any avail.

“I won’t go,” said Mr. Dick, “unless I can have my shirt at least.”

“You can have your shirt,” said Mr. Red. “Go and get it.”

Mr. Dick made his way slowly across the beach. He looked over his
shoulder from time to time, and saw that Mr. Red was following closely
with the revolver. He reached the grass, felt it soft under his feet,
and moved more easily. It occurred to him that he might make a dash for
liberty. Mr. Red would shoot, no doubt; but he might miss. He might
hit, and still only wound--wound in some trifling way which would not
prevent further flight. There was a grove of trees not fifty yards
distant. They were small, scrubby trees, but they would afford some
shelter. He made up his mind to risk it. Then the awful prospect before
him made him pause. How could he--even supposing that he was not shot
dead at once--wander stark naked through a strange country?

He reached the pile of clothes, stooped down and picked up his shirt.
Then he took up his trousers.

“Drop that,” said Mr. Red.

Dean Swift noted the fact that an unarmed man in his shirt is likely
to get the worst of a struggle with eight armed men who are fully
dressed. The chances are more equal, if there is only one armed man, if
the unarmed man gets his trousers on. Mr. Red knew this, and strictly
limited Mr. Dick’s clothing. He was not prepared to run any unnecessary
risk with his prisoner. The warmth of the shirt, which was flannel,
restored Mr. Dick’s self-respect and courage. He turned on Mr. Red once
more.

“If this is the way that Irish landlords habitually behave,” he said,
“I don’t wonder that there has been an agrarian revolution in the
country. I always had a certain sympathy with your class before, but
now that I know what you really are I shall vote for the next Land Bill
that is brought in, whatever it is.”

“Precede me to the house,” said Mr. Red.

Mr. Dick walked on. He crossed the grass rapidly and came to the gravel
sweep in front of the house. Here his feet began to give him great pain
again. The gravel was in some ways worse than the stones on the beach
had been. Mr. Dick felt it severely.

“I’ve heard stories,” said Mr. Dick, “of the way you Irish landlords
treated your tenants in the past. I know now that I didn’t hear half
the truth. Anything more abominable, more outrageous, more utterly
illegal----”

He reached the door of the house as he spoke, and stepped with a sigh
of relief on to the smooth step.

“Look here,” he said, “where’s Sanders? Have you murdered Sanders?”

He went forward again, passed through the door, and stood in the hall.

There, in front of him, bound hand and foot, guarded by the
long-bearded anarchist, lay Mr. Sanders.



CHAPTER XIV


Mr. Red treated Dr. O’Grady and Patsy Devlin very well. They could
not have fared better if they had been political prisoners awaiting a
trial for inciting people to boycott each other. They had abundance
of excellent food, three meals a day, brought up to them by one of
the foreign anarchists. They had a sufficiency of whisky and tobacco.
A second bed was supplied when the doctor objected to sleeping with
Patsy Devlin. Twice every day Dr. O’Grady was taken downstairs and
allowed to attend the injured man, who was recovering rapidly. Every
evening Mr. Red, adhering honourably to his bargain, handed over five
sovereigns to the doctor. A large number of books was supplied to the
prisoners. They were chiefly treatises on the theory and practice of
anarchism, accounts of the revolution in Russia, and kindred matters.
Dr. O’Grady was perfectly content with them. The subject was new to
him, and he read with excited curiosity. It was a favourite boast of
his that no book of any kind bored him, provided he understood the
language in which it was written. Unfortunately, Patsy Devlin did not
like reading. He worked slowly through the accounts of the murders of
a few Grand Dukes, and displayed some slight interest in the tortures
inflicted on a female anarchist. Then he became bored and refused to
read any more. He used to walk about the room whistling loudly. There
were only two tunes which he cared to whistle--“The wearing of the
Green” and “God save Ireland.” The constant repetition of them began to
irritate Dr. O’Grady at the end of the second day of Patsy’s captivity.
He expostulated, and Patsy agreed to stop whistling. He was a man of
kindly heart and had a real affection for the doctor.

“I wouldn’t,” he said, “be doing what might annoy you; and if so be
that the tunes is disagreeable, there won’t be another note of them
heard from this out.”

He meant what he said, but he promised more than he was able to
perform. It soon appeared that he could not help whistling. He did not,
in fact, know when he was whistling. The tunes came bubbling from his
pursed lips against his will.

Dr. O’Grady recognized that Patsy could not accomplish the impossible.
He gave up reading about anarchists, and asked Mr. Red for a pack of
cards. The request, a reasonable one, was refused, and Dr. O’Grady
snubbed for making it. Mr. Red disapproved of card-playing on
principle. He said that games of chance were demoralizing to the human
race. As a consistent anarchist he could not and would not allow them
to be played in his house. Then Dr. O’Grady invented a game which could
be played with coins on a table. A penny was placed at a short distance
from the edge of the table and driven along by the impact of another
penny flipped at it from the edge. The object was to hit the first
penny as frequently as possible before it was driven over the opposite
edge of the table. Patsy displayed a great aptitude for the game. After
an hour’s play he was fairly expert. Before the end of the afternoon
he had won ninepence from Dr. O’Grady. He practised assiduously next
morning while the doctor read anarchist books. During the afternoon
and evening he won, to his great delight, sums which amounted
altogether to one-and-sevenpence. He did not whistle while he practised
or played. In order to concentrate his whole energy on the game he was
obliged to keep his mouth wide open.

A game was in full swing on the third afternoon of Patsy’s captivity
when the key turned in the lock and the door of the room was flung open.

“Now what,” said Dr. O’Grady, “can the Emperor possibly want with us at
this hour of the day? It’s not tea-time.”

Mr. Dick, clad only in his grey flannel shirt, walked in.

“Hallo!” said Dr. O’Grady, “are you an anti-military anarchist getting
into training for the simple life? Or are you a new recruit undergoing
the ceremony of initiation into the brotherhood? Or is it nothing but
the heat of the day?”

Mr. Red and the bearded anarchist dragged Mr. Sanders into the room and
deposited him, still bound, on the floor.

“Oh,” said the doctor, “another captive! Good. But don’t overdo the
thing, Emperor. You can’t you know, go on storing up men in this way
without attracting public attention. Patsy Devlin and I are all right,
of course. We’re not important people. Nobody misses us in the least.
But that man on the floor looks to me like a commercial traveller, and
if he happens to belong to any English firm, a search will sooner or
later be made for him.”

“We are Members of Parliament,” said Mr. Dick.

“You don’t look as if you were,” said the doctor. “Does he, Patsy?”

“Be damn, but he does not! I’ve seen some queer fellows made members of
Parliament in my day. There was one time I was very near going in for
it myself; but I never heard tell of e’er a one yet but owned a pair of
breeches--to start with, anyway.”

“You hear what Patsy Devlin says,” said the doctor. “He quite agrees
with me that you don’t look like a Member of Parliament.”

Mr. Red, with his assistant anarchist, left the room and locked the
door behind him. Dr. O’Grady shouted after him.

“Hullo! Emperor! I say, are you there? Wait a minute before you go
away. Are you listening to me?”

“I hear.”

Mr. Red’s voice, coming through the shut door, sounded more solemn than
usual.

“I’m glad you do,” said Dr. O’Grady. “Don’t go away now till I’ve
finished speaking. I want you to understand that we can’t possibly have
these two fellows billeted here on us. It’s all very fine for you to go
about picking up all sorts of people off the public roads and dumping
them down here; but Patsy Devlin and I don’t like it. It’s not fair. I
told you before that we don’t in the least object to being imprisoned;
but we bar having an escaped lunatic with nothing on but a shirt, and a
wretched commercial traveller shoved in here into a room which we have
come to regard as our private apartment.”

“We are Members of Parliament,” said Mr. Dick. “We demand to be taken
at once before the British Consul.”

He appeared to think, not at all unnaturally, that he had strayed
beyond the bounds of His Majesty’s dominions.

“Do shut up,” said Dr. O’Grady, in a whisper. “We don’t believe you’re
Members of Parliament. Nor does the Emperor. As a matter of fact,
you’re not up to the level of the average county councillor in the way
of respectability. Saying absurd things like that will simply enrage
the Emperor. He’s frightfully touchy, and the moment he loses his
temper he shoots off his pistol. I say,” he went on in a loud tone,
“are you there still? Hang it, I believe he’s gone. That’s your fault.”
He addressed Mr. Dick. “Why didn’t you keep your mouth shut and let me
talk to him? Now the Emperor won’t be back till tea-time, and we’ll
have to put up with you till then. Perhaps, as you are here, you’ll
kindly explain what you mean by bursting in on us unannounced in this
way. You might at least have knocked at the door.”

“I was bathing----” began Mr. Dick.

“Where?”

“I don’t know. Just outside the house. He came and took away my
clothes.”

“Serves you jolly well right,” said the doctor. “What made you come
here, of all places in the world, to bathe? Surely to goodness the
Atlantic Ocean is big enough to bathe in without your picking out the
exact spot in which the Anti-Military Anarchists are maturing their
plans. Why did you do it?”

“Anarchists?” said Mr. Dick.

“Yes, Anti-Military Anarchists--the very worst sort there is.”

“I thought he was a landlord.”

“Well, he isn’t. He’s as nearly as possible the exact reverse.”

“Are you an anarchist too?”

“No, I’m not,” said Dr. O’Grady, “nor is Patsy Devlin. So far we
haven’t been asked to join the organization. We’re simply prisoners.
We’ve been captured by the brotherhood. But we had sense enough to wear
our ordinary clothes. You may think it’s the proper thing to go about
in nothing but your shirt because you happen to be in the house of an
anarchist, but I can tell you----”

Mr. Sanders, who still lay on the floor, groaned dismally.

“Loose that fellow, Patsy,” said the doctor. “He appears to be in pain
of some sort.”

“Anarchists!” said Mr. Dick. “Good heavens! How frightful! My wife! My
poor wife!”

“She’ll be all right,” said the doctor. “The Emperor won’t do her any
harm. He’s a thorough gentleman in every way, a chivalrous gentleman,
and I’m perfectly certain he wouldn’t ill-treat a woman. You may
rely on it that she’ll be made quite comfortable. She was with you,
I suppose. If so, I don’t in the least wonder that you were run in.
The Emperor has frightfully strict, old-fashioned ideas about lots
of things. He objects to cards, for instance, as demoralizing. I’m
sure that mixed bathing would simply horrify him. There’s no greater
mistake than to think that just because a man’s an anarchist, you can
do what you like without shocking him. You can’t. The Emperor has his
prejudices just like the rest of us.”

Patsy Devlin set Mr. Sanders on his feet and rubbed him down carefully.
The poor man seemed dazed and bewildered.

“Do you belong to the bathing party too?” asked Dr. O’Grady. “Or are
you a separate and distinct capture, unconnected with the gentleman in
the flannel shirt?”

“I don’t bathe,” said Mr. Sanders, “because I have a weak heart and it
doesn’t agree with me.”

“Then what were you doing? You must have been doing something which
annoyed the Emperor. He may be a bit touched in the head. Most of us
are, more or less; but he’s not so mad as to saddle himself with the
expense of boarding and lodging a fellow like you unless you have been
doing something he dislikes. What were you at?”

“I was mending a bicycle, Mrs. Dick’s bicycle; at least----”

“Who is Mrs. Dick?” asked Dr. O’Grady. “The lady who was bathing?”

“She wasn’t bathing,” said Mr. Dick.

“All right. Don’t get angry. I thought your name might be Dick and that
the lady might be your wife.”

“My name is Dick, and she is my wife.”

“I don’t understand you in the least,” said Dr. O’Grady. “Have you got
two wives? Has that anything to do with the way you’re going about with
nothing on you but your shirt?”

“No, it hasn’t; and I’ve not got two wives.”

“You must have two wives,” said Dr. O’Grady. “You told me this instant
that your wife was bathing with you on the shore. And now you say Mrs.
Dick wasn’t bathing. Those two statements can’t possibly both be true
about the same woman. But I won’t go into that yet. Later on you shall
have an opportunity of clearing yourself if you can. First of all, I
want to get to the bottom of this bicycle business, which seems to be
less complicated.”

He turned to Mr. Sanders. “You say that you were engaged in mending
Mrs. Dick’s bicycle when the Emperor came on you.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Sanders. “At least I wanted to mend it.”

“That’s not exactly the same thing. I wish you’d try to be accurate.
There’s no use my attempting to unravel this tangle and get at the
truth for you if you won’t be careful what you say. Go on.”

“I knocked for some time at the door, but nobody came to me. Then I----”

“I expect,” said the doctor, “that the Emperor was in the Chamber of
Research at the time, concocting some new kind of dynamite. That’s his
favourite occupation.”

“Good God!” said Mr. Sanders.

“It’s all right. Don’t be afraid. The mixtures he makes hardly ever
go off. And in any case he won’t want to blow you up unless you are
a soldier. You’re not in the army, are you? You don’t look as if you
were.”

“No.”

“Or in the militia? The Emperor has a perfect horror of militiamen.
Hasn’t he, Patsy?”

“He damn nearly shot me,” said Patsy, “when I told him I’d been in the
militia.”

“Let’s get back to the bicycle,” said Dr. O’Grady. “Mrs. Dick’s
bicycle, as I understand, which you wanted to mend. When you found
that nobody took any notice of your knocking, what did you do?”

“I pushed the door open--it wasn’t locked or bolted--and stepped in.”

“That strikes me,” said Dr. O’Grady, “as pretty fair cheek on your
part, considering that you’re not an Anti-Military Anarchist. You might
have guessed that it would irritate the Emperor, especially as he was
making dynamite at the time. What happened next?”

“I looked round and saw no one. I rang the dinner gong, which was
standing in a corner of the hall. When that didn’t attract anybody’s
attention I tried the door on the right, and found it locked.”

“It’s a pity you didn’t try the one on the left. If you had, you’d have
seen the yellow crocodiles, and they’d have frightened you out of the
house.”

“Then, just as I was turning to go away, two men sprang on me and bound
me. After that I knew no more until----”

“I wish,” said Mr. Dick, interrupting his friend’s story, “that
somebody would lend me a pair of trousers.”

“I haven’t got any spare trousers,” said Dr. O’Grady, “and if I had,
I’m not at all sure that I’d lend them to you. You say you’re a Member
of Parliament; but I’ve no proof of that. And even if you are it
doesn’t seem to me to follow that you’d return the trousers.”

“What am I to do?” said Mr. Dick. “I can’t go about in this state all
day.”

“You won’t go about much in any case,” said the doctor. “But for the
immediate present I think you’d better get into Patsy Devlin’s bed.
It’s no pleasure to us to see you standing about in your shirt. When
you’re in bed I shall ask you a few questions, and if it turns out that
the Emperor really has got your clothes, I’ll do my best to persuade
him to give them back to you when he comes up here at tea-time. I
suppose you don’t mind his getting into your bed, Patsy, just for the
present?”

“I do not,” said Patsy, “so long as he’s out of it before I’m wanting
it myself.”

Mr. Dick crept in between the blankets.

“Now,” said the doctor, “we’ll take up your story. You have, as I
understand, two wives, one of whom bathes, and the other owns a
bicycle.”

Mr. Dick sat up and protested strongly. He appealed to Mr. Sanders to
clear him of the charge of bigamy.

“All right,” said Dr. O’Grady; “I’ll accept the statement that you’ve
only one. Was she, or was she not, bathing with you when the Emperor
came on you? Be careful how you answer.”

“Certainly not. She’s--I trust she’s miles away, and safe.”

“Then why did you express anxiety about the way the Emperor was likely
to treat her?”

“I didn’t.”

“You did. You kept saying, ‘My poor wife.’ What did you mean by that,
if you didn’t mean that the Emperor had captured her?”

“I meant that she’d be anxious about me.”

“She can’t be as fond of you as all that,” said the doctor. “Nobody
could.”

“She’s very fond of me. We’re only quite lately married.”

“Have you a wife too?” said the doctor to Mr. Sanders.

“Yes. I have a wife and an aunt. They’re both with me in Ireland.”

“Do you suppose that your wife is as fond of you as Mrs. Dick is of her
husband?”

“I don’t know. How could I know that?”

“The reason I ask the question,” said Dr. O’Grady, “is this. There’s
a girl I’m engaged to be married to, a Miss Adeline Maud Blow, who
is probably scouring the country in pursuit of me this minute. Patsy
Devlin has a wife who may be out looking for him.”

“The minute she’d find out I was gone,” said Patsy, “she’d be up at the
barrack telling the police, the way she’d have me brought back to her.”

“And now,” said the doctor, “it turns out that Mr. Dick has a wife, or
perhaps two, of an unusually affectionate kind. And you have a wife and
an aunt who have some regard for you. That makes five women altogether,
all of them more or less energetic, and all of them bent on finding us.
The question is, how long will it be before they think of coming to
Rosivera?”

“Not long,” said Mr. Sanders, “not long, I hope.”

“For the sake of my poor wife,” said Mr. Dick, who had covered himself
with the bed-clothes again, “I trust it will not be long.”

“Be damn,” said Patsy Devlin, “but to listen to the way you’re talking,
a man would think nobody in the world but yourself ever had a wife. I
have one myself, as the doctor was saying this minute, and I wouldn’t
wonder but she might be a better one than yours. But you don’t hear me
lamenting over her every time I open my mouth.”

“Tell me this,” said the doctor: “did you ever escape from your wife
before?”

“Escape from her!”

“I mean, did you ever temporarily desert her, either through being
taken prisoner or otherwise?”

“Never,” said Mr. Dick. “We’ve only been a year married, and we’ve
never been parted, even for a single day.”

“That’s all right,” said the doctor. “Then she won’t have had any
practice in looking for you. Patsy Devlin’s wife, as you heard, is
likely to go straight to the police barrack when she misses him. But
then she’s more or less accustomed to his not turning up regularly.”

“I wouldn’t say,” said Patsy, “that the police would be paying too much
attention to what she might tell them.”

“What about your wife, and your aunt?” said the doctor to Mr. Sanders.
“Are they accustomed to having to hunt you up?”

“Do I gather from what you say,” said Mr. Sanders, “that you don’t want
to be rescued?”

“We certainly do not,” said the doctor. “Patsy and I are perfectly
comfortable where we are. We know when we are well off.”

“Good God!” said Mr. Sanders. “In the hands of a bloodthirsty
anarchist!”

“Don’t abuse the Emperor,” said the doctor, “for I won’t stand it. He
may be an anarchist, but he’s a thoroughly good sort.”

“I’m thankful to say,” said Mr. Sanders, “that my aunt is a woman of
great vigour and determination. She will do everything that can be done
to discover where we are and to rescue us. I place implicit confidence
in her. Nothing will daunt her.”

“If, as I gather from your description of her, she is any kind of
Suffragette,” said the doctor, “I hope, for her own sake, that she’ll
keep clear of the Emperor. He has the strongest possible prejudice
against advanced women. I happened one day to mention the name of Jael
to him in the course of conversation. You know the woman I mean, the
one who hammered the nail into the man’s head. I naturally thought he’d
admire her immensely, but he didn’t in the least. He flew into the most
frightful rage. Didn’t he, Patsy?”

“I heard you saying so,” said Patsy, “and of course I believed you. But
I wasn’t here myself at the time. You know that, doctor.”

Mr. Sanders brightened up suddenly.

“Are you a doctor?” he said.

“I am, or I was, the dispensary doctor of Clonmore Poor Law Union. By
the way, Patsy, was there any talk of their electing a new man when
they found out that I’d gone?”

“I wouldn’t be telling you a lie. There was.”

“If you’re a doctor,” said Mr. Sanders eagerly, “you’ll be able to
certify that I have a weak heart, and that confinement will seriously
injure my health. Then he’ll be bound to let me go.”

“I haven’t a stethoscope with me,” said the doctor, “so I can’t. But
even if I wrote you out quite a long certificate I don’t suppose that
it would influence the Emperor in the least. He doesn’t care about your
health. Why should he?”

“But I’ve always understood---- Why, the Home Secretary only the other
day----”

“And I may as well tell you straight,” said the doctor, “that if I had
a stethoscope, and if the Emperor would let you out on my certificate,
I wouldn’t give it. In fact, if I certified at all, I’d certify that
you are a particularly strong and enduring kind of man, and that a
little imprisonment would do you good.”

“But why----? Why should----?”

“Because the first thing you’d do when you got out would be to bring
the police down on us here, and that’s exactly what we don’t want.”



CHAPTER XV


Miss Blow stood at the window of her bedroom in Jimmy O’Loughlin’s
hotel, and saw Mr. Dick and Mr. Sanders ride by on their bicycles. She
did not for a moment suppose that they were the Members of Parliament
who had arrived by the train. They looked like hilarious but shabby
tourists. It is not with such faces or in such clothes that candidates
for election woo their constituents in Merrie England. She afterwards
saw the three ladies drive by, followed by the car which carried their
luggage. She did not see Mr. Goddard. She supposed, very naturally,
that he and the Members of Parliament were consulting together
somewhere, perhaps in the waiting-room at the railway station, devising
plans for the rescue of what still might remain of Dr. O’Grady’s body.
She waited patiently, sustained by the hope of heroic measures to be
taken in the near future.

At half-past one Bridgy knocked at the door, and told her that her
dinner was ready for her.

“Will Mr. Goddard be in for dinner?” asked Miss Blow.

Bridgy did not feel that it was her duty to disclose the fact that Mr.
Goddard had driven away in the direction of Ballymoy. She answered
cautiously.

“He might,” she said.

This was unquestionably true. It was possible that Mr. Goddard would
repent as he went on his way, and come back to dine with Miss Blow. It
was not, in Bridgy’s opinion, at all likely that he would; but she did
not say this to Miss Blow.

“Will the other gentlemen be with him?”

“Well, I don’t know, miss.”

She did know, but she held charity to be a higher virtue than truth. If
Miss Blow hoped for the company of other gentlemen, Bridgy would not
subject her to a disappointment sooner than was absolutely necessary.

Miss Blow dined alone. After dinner she waited another half-hour. Then
she rang the bell for Bridgy.

“Has Mr. Goddard come back yet?”

“Well, I don’t know, miss.”

“Are the other gentlemen in the hotel?”

“Well, I don’t know.”

“Go and find out, then,” said Miss Blow.

Bridgy went downstairs and summoned Jimmy O’Loughlin from behind the
bar.

“The young lady above,” she said, “is asking me this two hours if Mr.
Goddard is come back.”

“You know as well as I do,” said Jimmy, “that he hasn’t, and, what’s
more, won’t.”

“Sure, I do know that. Didn’t I see him making off out of the yard by
the back gate the way she wouldn’t see him go?”

“Well, then, go and tell her so.”

“Is it me? I dursn’t.”

“Do it at once,” said Jimmy. “It was you she asked, and it’s you that
ought to answer her. Off with you now, and not another word out of your
head.”

Bridgy, who saw no reason why she should face the wrath of Miss Blow,
retired to a small room which opened off the scullery, and spent an
hour cleaning her own boots. Miss Blow waited, and after a while got
tired of waiting. She rang the bell again. Bridgy heard it, and, for
greater security, went into the yard and concealed herself in the cow
byre. Miss Blow came downstairs and found Jimmy O’Loughlin. He had not
thought of hiding, and was caught unawares.

“Is Mr. Goddard in the hotel?” she asked.

“He is not,” said Jimmy. “It’s himself was sorry to go; but there
came a messenger over from Ballymoy, a police sergeant, to say he was
wanting, and wanting badly. It might be cattle driving that’s in it, or
it might be a meeting about the land or maybe an eviction. They’re a
queer lot down in them parts. Anyway, he was wanting, and he went.”

“It’s a curious thing,” said Miss Blow, “that he went off without
saying a word to me.”

“Well, now,” said Jimmy, “if I amn’t the fool this day; but I thought
Bridgy would be sure to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“The last words he said to me as he was getting up into the trap was
these; ‘Jimmy,’ says he, ‘it goes to my heart to be leaving Miss Blow
behind me, and her in trouble. She’ll never forgive me.’ ‘Believe you
me,’ says I, striving to encourage him, for I could see he felt it,
‘she will.’ ‘She will not,’ says he. ‘Don’t I know she won’t?’ ‘She
will,’ says I. ‘There isn’t a young lady ever I met with a better
heart.’ ‘Will you tell her,’ says he, ‘that it was forced on me or I
wouldn’t do it, not if you was to give me the full of my hat of golden
sovereigns?’ ‘I’ll tell her,’ says I; ‘I’ll break it to her quiet and
easy the way she won’t be feeling it.’ And, glory be to God, I have.”

“You might have done it a little sooner,” said Miss Blow.

“I might, and that’s a fact,” said Jimmy apologetically.

“Where are the other gentlemen?” said Miss Blow.

“The other gentlemen! Is it them ones that come in on the train? Did
you not see them going by on their bicycles? They’re the most of the
way to Pool-a-donagh by this time.”

It occurred to Miss Blow that she had been deceived, tricked,
abominably insulted by Mr. Goddard. She distinctly remembered the
bicyclists. They had passed down the street almost immediately after
the arrival of the train. It was quite impossible for Mr. Goddard to
have had any serious conversation with them. She hesitated, on the
verge of tears. Then the utter futility of weeping in the presence of
Jimmy O’Loughlin struck her. She pulled herself together and, with
prompt decision, settled her course of action.

“Get the car,” she said, “at once. I shall drive over to Ballymoy and
see Mr. Goddard.”

“The car’s not in it,” said Jimmy.

Miss Blow stamped her foot.

“Get any car,” she said. “I don’t care whether it’s your own or
another.”

“Divil the car there is in Clonmore this minute,” said Jimmy. “The
ladies that came in by the train has the both of them took, and they’re
away off with them to Pool-a-donagh, if so be that the horses can do
the journey.”

“Do you mean to say that there isn’t a horse and car to be got in the
place?”

“There is not. It’s the truth I’m telling you; and if you don’t
believe me, go up and ask Sergeant Farrelly at the barrack.”

“Then,” said Miss Blow, “I’ll walk.”

“Is it to walk to Ballymoy? You’d never over it, and the weather as hot
as it is. It’s better than twelve miles.”

“I’ll do it,” said Miss Blow.

She did. A little footsore, very tired, but still blazing with
indignation, she arrived in Ballymoy at a quarter to six o’clock.

Just outside Ballymoy, close to the Clonmore road, is the ground
belonging to the tennis club. There are three courts and a galvanized
iron hut, known as the pavilion. On club days, when some lady gives
tea to the players, there are usually twenty or thirty people on
the ground. On other days only a few enthusiasts go to the club. It
happened that when Miss Blow came in sight on the road there was no
one at the club except Mr. Goddard and Captain Fielding, the Resident
Magistrate. They were playing a vigorous game, having a final practice
in preparation for the tournament which was to be held next day. Mr.
Goddard was serving in the fifth game of the set when he caught sight
of Miss Blow. He paused, stared at her, dropped the two balls which he
held in his hand, and fled without a word into the pavilion.

Captain Fielding gaped with astonishment, looked up and down the road,
saw nothing very alarming, and followed Mr. Goddard into the pavilion.

“What the devil----” he began.

Mr. Goddard took no notice of the remark. He was staring out of a small
window which commanded a view of the road.

“What the----” said Captain Fielding again.

Mr. Goddard turned suddenly.

“Fielding,” he said, “jump on your bicycle and ride like hell to my
house. Don’t lose a moment. Get a hold of my housekeeper, and tell her
that if any lady calls she’s to say I’ve gone away on leave and won’t
be back for six weeks. Don’t stop to ask questions. I’ll explain it all
to you when you get back.”

He pushed Captain Fielding out of the pavilion.

“You’ll be in time,” he said, “if only you’ll go. Thank goodness my
house is at the far end of the town.”

Captain Fielding did as he was told. He rode fast, because he was most
anxious to hear Mr. Goddard’s explanation as soon as possible. He
delivered his message to the housekeeper, and then rode back.

“Did you pass a girl walking along the road?” said Mr. Goddard.

“I did; a pretty girl in a grey dress, a stranger.”

“Well, she’s mad--stark mad. She’s been bothering me out of my life
these two days. I’m sick and tired of talking to her. If she catches me
now I’m done.”

“If she’s mad,” said the R. M., “why don’t you have her locked up? I’ll
sign the papers for you if you get a medical certificate.”

“She’s not mad in that sort of way,” said Goddard, “although she is
mad.”

“I see,” said the R. M.; “temper. It’s not a breach of promise case, is
it, Goddard?”

“Nothing of the sort. I never set eyes on her in my life till
yesterday. In fact, she’s engaged to quite another man.”

“I see,” said the R. M. doubtfully.

“The fact is,” said Goddard, “she has a theory that there has been a
murder over at Clonmore. There hasn’t, of course; but she thinks there
has--and--well, the fact is, I promised to investigate it. She cried,
you know, and that sort of thing. The whole business is utterly absurd
from start to finish.”

“And what do you propose to do now?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps she’ll go away when she gets the message about
my being on leave. I shall stay here till after dark, anyhow, and then
sneak down to the house and find out what’s happened.”

“I think,” said Captain Fielding, “that I’ll stay with you. I’d rather
like to see this business through. Besides, when she finds she can’t
get you she’ll probably go up to my house for me.”

Miss Blow received the message from Mr. Goddard’s housekeeper with open
incredulity.

“I shall wait here,” she said, “until Mr. Goddard comes home.”

The servant was in a difficult position. She recognized Miss Blow as
the lady to whom she had given tea the day before, who had driven
off, apparently on the most friendly terms, with Mr. Goddard. It was
plainly impossible to slam the door as doors are slammed in the faces
of drunken tramps. She was a woman of kindly disposition. She saw
that Miss Blow was dusty, tired, in need of rest and refreshment. Her
natural impulse was to be hospitable. At the same time she had no doubt
as to what Mr. Goddard’s wishes were with regard to this particular
visitor. She was a woman of intelligence, and she realized that the
message delivered by Captain Fielding was urgent and important. She
hesitated, standing in the middle of the doorway. Miss Blow put an end
to all uncertainty by walking past her into the house, opening the
dining-room door, entering the room, and sitting down.

Mr. Goddard’s housekeeper retired to the kitchen and meditated on the
situation. It was plainly impossible to remove Miss Blow without the
use of actual force. At seven o’clock pity triumphed over her sense of
duty to her master. She made some tea and took it in to Miss Blow on a
tray. At eight o’clock a police constable came to the door and asked
to see Mr. Goddard. He refused to believe that the District Inspector
had gone on leave. The housekeeper, despairing of anything except the
actual truth, confessed that there was a young lady in the house, and
gave it as her opinion that Mr. Goddard was afraid to meet her. The
constable disappeared, grinning. The housekeeper was uneasily conscious
that he was putting a wrong meaning into the fact of Miss Blow’s
presence in the house.

At nine o’clock Mr. Goddard, still in tennis flannels, and accompanied
by Captain Fielding, climbed over the wall of his own back garden, and
slipped through the yard into the kitchen.

“Mary,” he said to the housekeeper, “is that young lady gone?”

“She is not; and, what’s more, it’s my opinion that she won’t go.”

“There,” said Mr. Goddard to Captain Fielding, “what did I tell you?
She’s an amazingly persistent woman.”

“Go and turn her out,” said Captain Fielding. “Tell her it’s highly
improper for her to be sitting here in your house in the middle of the
night.”

Mr. Goddard sighed. The advice was well meant, but it was useless. He
knew Miss Blow, and Captain Fielding did not.

“Mary,” he said, “slip upstairs as quietly as you can, and get my
pyjamas and tooth brush. I’ll have to go to the barrack for the night.
They’ll give me some sort of a shake-down.”

“And will the young lady be sleeping here?” asked Mary.

“I expect so,” said Mr. Goddard. “If she does, she’ll tell you so
beforehand quite plainly. Make her as comfortable as you can.”

Mary went upstairs on tiptoe. Unfortunately, owing to nervousness
induced by excess of caution, she upset a hot-water can, which fell
with a hideous clatter against Mr. Goddard’s bath. She hastened from
the bedroom, and was met on the stairs by Miss Blow.

“What have you got there?” said Miss Blow, eyeing the pyjamas
suspiciously.

“It’s clothes from the wash,” said Mary. “Now that the master’s away, I
thought I might as well be doing that as nothing.”

“You can tell him,” said Miss Blow, “that I’m going to the hotel now,
and that I’ll be round to see him the first thing in the morning.”

She left the house, slamming the door behind her. Mary carried the
pyjamas and the tooth brush upstairs again. Then she went into the
kitchen and broke the happy news to her master and Captain Fielding.

“Thank God!” said Mr. Goddard. “I’m safe for to-night, anyway.”

“She’ll be back with you in the morning,” said Captain Fielding,
grinning. “I don’t see that you’ve much to congratulate yourself
about.”

“Something may happen before then,” said Mr. Goddard.

It is very seldom that things happen just when they are wanted to. The
prisoner on the verge of execution hopes, but as a rule hopes in vain,
for an earthquake at early dawn. The debtor whose bill is due the next
day prays for, but scarcely expects, a fire in the bank premises during
the night, an effective fire destructive of iron safes. Mr. Goddard’s
feeling that something might happen before Miss Blow caught him again
was hardly a hope. Nothing short of some wholly unprecedented event
would be any use to him. But Mr. Goddard was exceptionally fortunate.
Something did happen. He was roused at six o’clock in the morning by
a violent knocking at his door. He looked out of his window and saw
Constable Moriarty standing in the street with a bicycle.

“What on earth do you want at this hour?” said Mr. Goddard.

He had slept badly during the early part of the night, and was greatly
annoyed at being roused from a doze at six o’clock.

“If it’s Miss Blow you’re after,” he went on, “I haven’t got her here.
She’s at the hotel. Go there and get her. Take her with you, if you
want her. She’s no use to me.”

Constable Moriarty grinned. He did not want Miss Blow any more than his
officer did. Then, in the very middle of his grin, he grew grave again.

“It’s what Sergeant Farrelly is after sending me over to tell you, sir,
that the two English gentlemen that went off to Pool-a-donagh on their
bicycles is after getting lost.”

“Lost! What do you mean by lost?”

“According to the word that came to the barrack at Clonmore, sir, the
ladies arrived at Pool-a-donagh at four o’clock or thereabouts and
didn’t find the gentlemen. It was thought that maybe they’d taken a
wrong turn, though it’s hard to know how they could, seeing there isn’t
a wrong turn to take, and that they might have come back to Clonmore.
So the sergeant at Pool-a-donagh sent a wire to Sergeant Farrelly; but
he didn’t know where they were, and no more did Jimmy O’Loughlin, for
we asked him. We sent a few more wires to the barracks round about, but
we got no tidings of them good nor bad. There was men out searching
all night from Pool-a-donagh, and Constable Cole and the sergeant took
a look round when they were on patrol. They do say the ladies was in
a terrible state. There was a mounted man came into Clonmore between
three and four this morning, and Sergeant Farrelly sent me over to you
on a bicycle the way you’d be able to tell him what he’d better do.”

“I never heard of such a thing in my life,” said Mr. Goddard. “How
can they be lost? The thing is impossible. Hang it all! they must be
somewhere.”

“So you’d say, sir. But there isn’t a police station anywhere round but
it’s been wired to, and not one has seen the gentlemen, dead or alive.”

“Don’t talk about their being dead,” said Mr. Goddard. “Good heavens,
man! They’re Members of Parliament. If they’ve gone and committed
suicide there’ll be a most frightful row, and everybody will say it’s
the fault of the police. They must be found at once.”

Mr. Goddard was in his pyjamas and dressing-gown. He told Constable
Moriarty to go into the yard and harness the horse while he shaved
and dressed. He was inclined at first to be angry with the Members of
Parliament. It is a stupid thing to get lost, and men have no right to
be stupid. He did not want to spend the day searching bohireens and
bog-holes. He wanted to play in the Ballymoy tennis tournament. He had
engaged himself as partner to Mrs. Fielding, the Resident Magistrate’s
wife, and it vexed him to have to disappoint the lady. By degrees the
matter began to present itself to him in a brighter light. He was now
obliged, absolutely forced, to leave Ballymoy, and by leaving early
he would escape Miss Blow, escape her for a time at all events. He
reflected that if she sought him out with her usual relentlessness he
would, in any case, have been unable to play in the tournament. A man
cannot with any decency appear on a tennis court while a beautiful
and angry girl hurls reproaches at him from the side lines. Even if
he succeeded in evading her, his nerve would be shattered by the
consciousness that she might appear beside him at any moment. It seemed
to him that the loss of the Members of Parliament was, after all, a
blessing in disguise; that, in fact, his wish had been fulfilled beyond
his hope--something had happened.

He sat down and scribbled a note of apology for his absence.

“Dear Fielding,” he wrote, “will you ask your wife to be so kind as to
excuse me. I am exceedingly sorry to disappoint her, and I assure you I
would not do it if I could possibly help it. Two Members of Parliament
have disappeared during the night, and I have to go out and look for
them. Perhaps the rector would play with Mrs. Fielding if you asked
him. He’s no earthly good, but he’s on the handicapping committee, and
would let himself in soft. In any case she would get a game of some
sort. If you happen to come across that good-looking girl in the grey
dress, you might tell her that I promised to play to-day with Mrs.
Fielding, and that you expect me up at the club between twelve o’clock
and four. That will keep her in Ballymoy for most of the day, anyhow.
The Lord knows I don’t want her on my track. I shall have worry enough
without that.”

He stuffed some biscuits into his pocket and went out into the yard.
Constable Moriarty promised to deliver the note to Captain Fielding.
Mr. Goddard got into his trap and drove off. He had to pass the hotel
on his way, and was half afraid that Miss Blow might sally out and
seize the horse’s head. She did not. It was not yet seven o’clock, and
the blinds of all the upstairs rooms were drawn down. Miss Blow was,
apparently, sleeping off the fatigue of the day before.

Mr. Goddard reached Clonmore at half-past eight. He found Sergeant
Farrelly and Constable Cole at breakfast. They had been up all night,
and were looking fagged, nervous, and harassed.

“There’s two more wires, sir, that’s come in since eight this morning.
The one of them says that there’s no further news of the missing
gentlemen in Pool-a-donagh, and the other says that the ladies started
back to Clonmore at seven this morning, and is in hopes that you’ll be
here to meet them when they arrive.

“If I’m not,” said Mr. Goddard--“and it’s quite possible that I
won’t--if I’m not, you’ll have to see them, sergeant. They’re very nice
ladies,” he added, noticing a gloom on Sergeant Farrelly’s face, “not
the least like Miss Blow.”

“It’s a queer thing,” said Sergeant Farrelly, “that a man could get
lost between this and Pool-a-donagh. It’s a straight road, and they got
started right on it. Jimmy O’Loughlin was telling me last night that he
seen them going through the town, and them heading straight on the same
as if they knew the place all their lives. Without they took a boat and
went out to sea in it--and I don’t know where they’d get a boat along
that road--it’s a queer thing.”

“It is a queer thing,” said Mr. Goddard. “But what’s the use of
spending the morning saying so? Show me all the telegrams that came
last night.”

He worked his way through a sheaf of pink forms. The messages were,
for the most part, very monotonous. In language which hardly varied
and with a strict attention to the number of words which can be sent
for sixpence, the sergeants of all the police barracks within a wide
circle disclaimed any knowledge of the missing gentlemen. No one had
seen them. The most careful inquiries brought no information. Here and
there, among these cold, official statements, Mr. Goddard came upon a
message which breathed anxiety, heartbreak, and despair, a despatch
from a wife or an aunt. These were verbose, reckless of expense, and
always ended by urging the necessity of immediate action on the part of
the police.

“I can’t do anything,” said Mr. Goddard; “at all events, I won’t do
anything till I’ve had some breakfast. It’s after nine now. I’ll go
down to the hotel and see what I can get out of Jimmy O’Loughlin.”

He found, when he reached the hotel, that the table in the commercial
room was laid for breakfast. A pleasant scent of frying bacon reached
him from the kitchen. He became aware that he was extremely hungry.

“Jimmy!” he called. “Jimmy O’Loughlin!”

“Is that yourself, Mr. Goddard?” said Jimmy, speaking from the top of
the stairs. “They’re just getting the breakfast ready for the doctor’s
young lady. I’ll tell them to fry a couple more eggs for you. She’ll be
glad of your company. It’s lonely for the creature taking her meals by
herself, and her in trouble about the loss of the doctor and all.”

Jimmy O’Loughlin in his shirt-sleeves and without a collar leaned over
the banisters as he spoke. The grin on his face was malicious.

“Is Miss Blow here?” said Mr. Goddard. “I don’t believe she is. How
could she?”

“She is not here,” said Jimmy, “but I’m just after getting a wire from
her to say that she’ll be in for her breakfast at half-past nine. It
must be that now, if it isn’t past it. Bridgy! Are you there, Bridgy?
I say, will you fry a couple of eggs and some rashers for Mr. Goddard?
He’ll be taking his breakfast along with the doctor’s young lady as
soon as she comes.”

“Look here,” said Mr. Goddard, “there’s no use your trying to pull my
leg in this way. Miss Blow can’t be here. She was sound asleep when I
left Ballymoy at seven, and she couldn’t possibly do the drive in the
time.”

“Not if she drove,” said Jimmy; “but she’d do it on a bicycle.”

“How do you know she has a bicycle?”

“I don’t know. How would I? All I say is that, being the sort of a
young lady she is, it’s likely she’d get a bicycle, or for the matter
of that a motor car, if so be she wanted one. Anyway, she’ll be here
at half-past nine, for that’s what she said.”

“Then,” said Mr. Goddard, “I’ll not stay for breakfast. I’m going up
to the Castle. I have business with Lord Manton. And look here, Jimmy,
when Miss Blow arrives, if she does arrive, there’ll be no need for you
to say anything about my being here. It would only upset her.”

“I will not. Why would I? Hasn’t she trouble enough without that? But
tell me now, Mr. Goddard, is it true what I hear them saying about them
gentlemen that was through the town yesterday on their bicycles?”

“Is what true?”

“That they’re off.”

“They’re lost,” said Mr. Goddard, “if that’s what you mean.”

Jimmy O’Loughlin winked. “The same as the poor doctor,” he said, “and
Patsy Devlin.”

“Not in the least the same. We know what happened to them well enough.
But these fellows are quite different. But I can’t stop here talking
to you all morning. I’ve something else to do. Don’t say anything to
anybody about my being up at the Castle.”

“I will not. If I open my mouth about you at all, I’ll say you’re
searching high and low for the men that’s gone.”



CHAPTER XVI


“His lordship is still at breakfast, sir,” said Wilkins.

“Will you ask him if I can speak to him for a few minutes as soon as he
has finished?” said Mr. Goddard.

He was shown into the library, where Lord Manton’s letters and
newspapers were arranged on a table near the window. He was an old
gentleman who declined to do business of any kind, even open a letter,
before breakfast. He attributed his good health to his habit of facing
the kind of worries which the post brings only when he was fortified by
a solid meal. Mr. Goddard glanced at the columns of a Dublin evening
paper of the day before, half fearful of a scare headline announcing
the loss of two Members of Parliament in Connemara. He was delighted to
find that the editor had been able to discover nothing more exciting
than a crisis in the Balkans and a speech by the Prime Minister.
Wilkins entered the room.

“His lordship’s compliments,” he said, “and he will be pleased if you
will join him at breakfast.”

Mr. Goddard accepted the invitation gladly. The smell of Jimmy
O’Loughlin’s bacon and eggs had whetted his appetite. He was conducted
to the dining-room by Wilkins, and found Lord Manton seated by himself
at the end of a large table. The dining-room in Clonmore Castle is
a spacious and well-proportioned apartment. A tradition exists that
in the time of Lord Manton’s father, on the occasion of a county
election, fifty gentlemen once sat down in it together at dinner. In
those days, no doubt, people did not object to being crowded. But even
to-day thirty people could very comfortably have dined in the room,
and there would still have been space for the servants to make their
way about. It was the largest room in the Castle, and its present
proprietor looked singularly small, even insignificant, seated alone in
the middle of it. Lord Manton greeted his guest cheerfully.

“Good morning, Mr. Goddard. This is an early visit. Have you by any
chance come across the body of Dr. O’Grady? Won’t you help yourself to
something to eat? You’ll find whatever there is on the side table.”

Mr. Goddard secured a kidney and some bacon.

“No,” he said; “there’s no news of Dr. O’Grady.”

“Have you got engaged to be married to Miss Blow?” said Lord Manton.
“That’s the way this business will end, I expect. That young woman came
over here for a husband, and now that the doctor has bolted there is
only you or me for her to choose. So far as I can see at present, she
seems to prefer you. I’m very glad she does. In fact, I’m keeping out
of her way as much as I can.”

“So am I; but it’s rather difficult.”

“I suppose it is. I hear that she went the whole way over to Ballymoy
after you last night; walked every step of it. I’m surprised that you
escaped her after that. How did you manage it? I should have thought
you could hardly have refused to marry her without being actually rude.
But perhaps that story is only gossip.”

“It’s quite true,” said Mr. Goddard. “But, Lord Manton, I came up here
this morning to speak to you about--the fact is, I am in a serious
difficulty.”

“You are. I can scarcely imagine anything more serious.”

“I wanted,” said Mr. Goddard, “to ask your advice about----”

“You shall have it. Give in and marry her at once with a good grace.
That’s my advice. After all, you might do a great deal worse. She’s a
very good-looking girl, and by her own account she’ll have some money.
It’s far better for you to pretend you like it. It’s no earthly use
your trying to escape if her mind is made up. Your plan of dodging
up and down between Clonmore and Ballymoy can’t be kept up for ever.
Sooner or later she’ll overtake you in one place or the other; or else
she’ll meet you on the road between the two, where you’ll be quite at
her mercy.”

“I dare say you’re right,” said Mr. Goddard. “But it’s not about Miss
Blow that I want to consult you this morning. Did you hear about the
Members of Parliament?”

“I heard that two Members of Parliament went through the town on
bicycles yesterday,” said Lord Manton, “with a lot of women after
them on cars; Suffragettes, I suppose, pursuing them for votes. It’s
astonishing how they track those poor fellows to the remotest ends of
the earth.”

“They’ve disappeared,” said Mr. Goddard.

“Sensible men. That was by far the wisest thing they could do. But I
wonder how they managed it? You haven’t been able to disappear from
Miss Blow. We must find out about it. I may have to disappear myself
when that question comes up to the House of Lords.”

“You’ve not got it right,” said Mr. Goddard. “The women on the cars
were their wives. Or rather two of them were. The other was their aunt.”

“Dear me! Is that legal? That sort of group marriage with a common aunt
doesn’t seem to me quite the thing for Members of Parliament.”

“They had one wife each, of course,” said Mr. Goddard, “and the aunt
only belonged to one of them. They have the police roused all over the
country looking for them. That’s what brings me here this morning. I’ve
got to do something to find them.”

“Do you mean to tell me that these two men have got lost in such a way
that they can’t be found?”

“They have. It’s really a most extraordinary thing. They started
on bicycles yesterday from Clonmore to ride to Pool-a-donagh. They
never arrived. That’s really all we know about the matter. The ladies
followed them on a car and didn’t overtake them. We’ve telegraphed to
every police barrack in the neighbourhood, and they haven’t turned up
anywhere.”

“I’ll tell you what it is, Goddard. This is an uncommonly awkward
business for you. Here you are, responsible for the safety of the
inhabitants of this district, and no less than four men disappear
completely in the inside of a single week. First there was Dr. O’Grady.
Then poor Patsy Devlin vanished, leaving a wife and family behind him.”

“We know all about them,” said Mr. Goddard.

“And now no less than two Members of Parliament. It doesn’t look at
all well. I’m greatly afraid there’ll be a fuss when it gets into the
newspapers. The public will take the keenest interest in it. We shall
have columns and columns every day. Do you happen to know whether
these men were Liberals or Conservatives?”

“No, I don’t. I don’t see that it makes any difference. I’ve got to
find them whichever they are.”

“It makes the greatest difference,” said Lord Manton. “If they’re
supporters of the Government, there’ll be a much bigger fuss than if
they’re on the Opposition side. The Prime Minister isn’t likely to
sit down quietly under the loss of two votes, especially with the way
bye-elections are going at present. You’ll simply have to find them.”

“I wish I could,” said Mr. Goddard. “I’d do it quick enough, whatever
their politics are, if I knew how to go about it.”

“Of course, if they belonged to the Opposition,” said Lord Manton, “the
matter won’t be pressed by the Government. But even so you’ll have the
newspapers to reckon with, and the curiosity of the general public. Why
don’t you go and look for them?”

“I would go at once, if I had the remotest idea where to look. But I
haven’t. That’s what I want your advice about.”

“You say,” said Lord Manton, “that there are three ladies belonging
to them. If I were you, I should begin by introducing them to Miss
Blow. Then get a hold of Mrs. Patsy Devlin and let her talk to the
whole party. You could put them all together into a room in Jimmy
O’Loughlin’s hotel. They’ll interest each other. They have so much in
common.”

“I might do that, of course. But I don’t see what good it would be. I
shouldn’t be any nearer finding the men.”

“No, you wouldn’t; but you’d have time to turn round and think things
out a bit. They’d be sure to talk for a good while once you get them
started, and it’s quite possible that by the time they’d finished, the
two men might have turned up somewhere or other.”

“I don’t see what can possibly have happened to them,” said Mr.
Goddard. “After you pass Rosivera the road runs the whole way between
the bog and the sea. They couldn’t get off it if they tried. And they
must have got as far as Rosivera when they started right, for there
isn’t a cross road between this and there. Even if they were fools
enough to go up some bohireen or other, they’d only have to turn around
and come down again.”

“That seems to me,” said Lord Manton, “to knock the bottom out of the
theory that they’ve got lost. As you say, they can’t be lost. They
might sit down on the side of the road and cry; but if they did the
women on the cars would have seen them.”

“I’ve thought all that out. I can’t see how they’ve got lost; but the
fact is they are lost.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Lord Manton.

“Surely you don’t suppose that they’re playing off a practical joke on
us.”

“Come into the library and have a smoke,” said Lord Manton.

“I’m not sure that I ought to. With this business on my hands I
scarcely feel justified--I think I should----”

“Oh, nonsense. You can’t do anything until you’ve thought. Premature
and imperfectly considered action in a case like this is always a
mistake, and you can’t possibly think properly without tobacco.”

Lord Manton kept excellent cigars for his guests. Mr. Goddard, who had
smoked them before, lit one with pleasure, and stretched himself in a
deep chair. He had breakfasted heartily, in spite of anxiety and worry.
He felt that a short rest was due to him. He was prepared to believe
that a period of calm reflection was due to the case of the two errant
Members of Parliament. Lord Manton did not smoke his own cigars, and
rarely lay back in his own very comfortable chairs. He preferred an
upright kind of seat, and he smoked cigarettes, lighting them one after
another in rapid succession, while he talked, wrote or thought. On this
occasion he did not remain seated for more than a couple of minutes.
Before his first cigarette was half smoked he stood up and talked down
to Mr. Goddard from a commanding position beside the chimney-piece.

“I don’t believe,” he said, “I don’t for one moment believe, that those
Members of Parliament are lost.”

“Lost or disappeared or stolen,” said Mr. Goddard, “it’s all the same
so far as I am concerned. I’ve got to find them.”

“It’s not in the least the same thing. If they were simply lost in
the way a child or a dog or a collar stud gets lost, then you’d know
where to look for them. Draw a circle of, say, ten miles in diameter,
with Rosivera for its centre, and they must be inside of it somewhere.
You’ve only got to put men enough on the job and you’re bound to find
them. But if they have disappeared of their own accord, vanished
intentionally and deliberately, then you will have to proceed in quite
a different way.”

“It’s all very well to talk of Dr. O’Grady and Patsy Devlin
disappearing like that; but it’s different with these men. Why the
devil should they disappear?”

“They can’t have got lost,” said Lord Manton. “You satisfied me, if
you did not satisfy yourself, about that; and if they’re lost they must
have bolted. How else can you account for their not turning up?”

“But why should they? What had they to run away from?”

“That, of course, I can’t say for certain, for I don’t know the men.
But, taking into consideration the little I do know about them, I can
make a guess. Can’t you imagine it? They had with them three women, two
wives and an aunt. The one who hadn’t his aunt with him very probably
has one at home, and it’s quite possible that they both have sisters.”

“I dare say they have. I didn’t ask.”

“Well now, think. They were English Members of Parliament, and
therefore presumably pretty well to do. They probably had businesses
somewhere, and residences in a suburban district. What does all that
mean? Respectability. Imagine to yourself the appalling weight of
respectability involved in the possession of a wife, an aunt, a sister,
a business, investments, and a seat in Parliament. Can’t you fancy
the poor fellows coming to find it all perfectly intolerable; saying
to each other: ‘Hang it, let’s get off and run loose for a while’? I
don’t say I’m right. I can’t be sure, because I don’t know the men, and
I didn’t see the women; but what I’m offering you is an intelligible
explanation. What sort of women were they? What were they like?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t notice anything particular about them. They
were just ordinary women.”

“There you are,” said Lord Manton. “It’s your ordinary, well-behaved
woman who drives a man perfectly frantic if he has any spirit in him.
I couldn’t live with an ordinary woman for three months at a stretch.
Look at my daughter, for instance. How long do you suppose I could
stand her? Certainly not three months, not two months. I’m at the end
of my tether after a six weeks’ visit to her. And I’m not married to
her. I haven’t got to be very close to her. I haven’t got to see her
in a red dressing-gown combing her hair. I haven’t got to listen to
the noise she makes when she’s washing her teeth. You don’t understand
these things because you’re not married. Very likely you never will
understand them, because Miss Blow’s not an ordinary woman----”

“She is not,” said Mr. Goddard.

“But these two poor fellows,” said Lord Manton, “had got to do with
ordinary women. They had to give their opinions on new hats, had to
listen to stories about the things which the servants did or didn’t do.
Of course they bolted.”

“I wish to goodness they’d have bolted out of some other district,
then, if they had to bolt. Why should they come here? You’d think it
would be much more convenient to run away from a place like London than
from Clonmore. But I don’t believe they have bolted.”

“They can’t have got lost. The thing’s absurd on the face of it. Take
a single point in addition to all those that you’ve made already.
Take their bicycles. A man might accidentally lose himself, but his
bicycle couldn’t possibly get lost. He must leave it on the side of
the road somewhere, and wherever he leaves it you’re sure to find it.
You can get rid of a bicycle on purpose, though even that’s not so
easy. Sinking it in the sea is about the only way I can imagine of
effectually disposing of it. But you can’t lose it and yourself. Nobody
could lose both himself and a bicycle unless he did it on purpose.”

“But----” said Mr. Goddard.

He had a whole series of criticisms utterly destructive of Lord
Manton’s hypothesis. He had seen the Members of Parliament. He felt
that he knew them. He found it impossible to imagine their breaking out
into wild Bohemianism, sickening of respectability, rebelling against
the monotony of any woman, however ordinary. There was Mr. Dick, who
had bounded out of the railway carriage, volatile, debonnair, gay
with familiar quotations. There was Mr. Sanders, rigid, mathematical,
a little morose on account of his weak heart. Lord Manton might
conceivably find an ordinary woman maddening; but Mr. Dick, once he
began, would go on kissing her contentedly for years and years. He
would appreciate the way in which his dinner was cooked for him. Mr.
Sanders would appreciate that too. He might be a little exacting,
would, no doubt, expect his weak heart to be taken seriously, would
put a woman in her proper place in the settled order of things, and
keep her there. But both Mr. Dick and Mr. Sanders would recognize that
a woman must be allowed to wash her teeth. They would not resent the
noise of the water gurgling in her mouth. They would both know that
women must comb their hair, and that a red dressing-gown is a suitable
and convenient garment under certain circumstances. They would not be
angry when they were told about the misdeeds of maid-servants, a trying
and exhausting class to deal with. They were men with well-balanced
minds, men of practical common sense, men who would not fly blindly in
the face of facts. They were not the men to run away from their wives,
or even from their aunts.

“But----” he began again.

Lord Manton lit a fresh cigarette, his fourth, and waited. Mr. Goddard
sought for words in which to express his feelings. He might have found
them in time, but time was not given him. Wilkins entered the room.

“There is a lady to see you, sir,” he said to Mr. Goddard. “I showed
her into the small drawing-room. She said she wished to see you
particular.”

“Good God!” said Mr. Goddard. “It’s Miss Blow!”

“Is it Miss Blow?” said Lord Manton to Wilkins. “Don’t attempt to break
the news to him if it is. Tell him straight out. It’s kinder in the
end.”

“It’s the same young lady,” said Wilkins, “that called on your lordship
two days ago.”

“The young lady that was talking about bringing a corpse here? I told
you, I remember, to get white flowers from the gardener. Is it that
young lady?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And has she brought it this time?”

“Not that I saw, my lord.”

“If you didn’t see it, Wilkins, I think we may take it for granted that
it isn’t there.”

“Damn that girl!” said Mr. Goddard. “You’d think I had enough on my
hands without her.”

“From the way you’re speaking of her,” said Lord Manton, “I suppose
you don’t feel inclined to go into the drawing-room and offer to marry
her. That, as I said before, is the proper thing for you to do. If you
won’t, the only other course I see open to you is to get away out of
this as fast as you can.”

“What’s the good? She’d be after me again at once.”

“Not at once,” said Lord Manton. “I think I can arrange to give you a
good long start. Wilkins will go back and ask her to be good enough
to remain where she is for a few minutes. You could tell her, Wilkins,
that Mr. Goddard is engaged with me at present, discussing very
important business, but that he’ll be with her in less than a quarter
of an hour. You could do that, Wilkins, couldn’t you?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Then Mr. Goddard could get out of the house and walk across the deer
park. You could run if you like, Goddard, keeping carefully out of
sight of the drawing-room windows. After a time, say at the end of half
an hour, Miss Blow will begin to get impatient. What do you suppose
she’ll do when she gets impatient, Wilkins?”

“I’d say, my lord, that’s she’s likely to ring the bell.”

“Exactly. That’s what I thought myself. I suppose, Wilkins, that you
could arrange for the under housemaid to go to her when she rings.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And the under housemaid would, of course, know nothing about Mr.
Goddard. What would the under housemaid do, Wilkins, when she was asked
about Mr. Goddard, and knew nothing about him?”

“I’d say, my lord, that she’d tell the young lady she’d go to make
inquiries.”

“Quite so. She’d be sure to do that. But she needn’t go back again to
Miss Blow. She could resume her interrupted duties. She could start
off under-housemaiding again at the place she left off when Miss Blow
rang the bell. I presume that, after a decent interval, say a quarter
of an hour, Miss Blow would ring the bell again; this time the upper
housemaid could go to her. That could be arranged, I suppose, Wilkins?”

“Certainly, my lord.”

“She, of course, would know nothing about Mr. Goddard; but she would
promise to go and make inquiries. She would then get back to her
upper-housemaiding and completely forget about Miss Blow. After another
interval, this time probably a shorter one, say ten minutes, Miss Blow
would ring the bell again. Then the cook could go to her, and, of
course----”

“Beg pardon, my lord, but the cook wouldn’t go.”

“Couldn’t you arrange it, Wilkins?”

“No, my lord; it’s not the cook’s place to answer bells.”

“I forgot that,” said Lord Manton. “It was stupid of me. I should have
remembered. I’m afraid, Wilkins, that you’d have to go yourself the
third time. You would tell her that Mr. Goddard had left the house an
hour before. It would be about an hour, wouldn’t it, Wilkins?”

“As near as I can go to it, it would be about that, my lord.”

“After that I should recommend you to leave the room at once, Wilkins.
You can stay if you like and see what happens, but I rather recommend
you to leave at once.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Very well. That gives you a clear hour’s start, Goddard. You’d better
be off at once.”

“Where am I to go to?”

“I really don’t know. I’m not advising you to run away. I think it
would be wiser for you to stay here and marry Miss Blow without any
further resistance. If you act contrary to my advice, you mustn’t
expect me to make your plans for you.”

Mr. Goddard and Wilkins left the room together. Lord Manton lit a
fresh cigarette and tried to make up his mind whether he would like
to see Miss Blow before she left the house. He felt sure that the
interview, if he ventured on it, would be an interesting one, and that
Miss Blow would say very amusing things. On the other hand, he had a
vivid recollection of the masterful way in which she compelled him to
write a note to Sergeant Farrelly. It seemed likely that she would
attempt something of the same sort again. He was most unwilling to get
further entangled in the mystery of Dr. O’Grady’s disappearance. He
was still turning the question over in his mind when Mr. Goddard burst
noisily into the room.



CHAPTER XVII


“Hullo!” said Lord Manton. “Back again. What have you forgotten? It’s
rather rash of you to venture, I think. If it’s only your cigar-case or
something of that sort that you’ve left behind, I should have had it
posted after you as soon as you sent me your address. I can’t keep Miss
Blow here permanently, you know. In dealing with a lady like her you
ought not to take these risks.”

“The others are coming,” said Mr. Goddard breathlessly.

“Oh, indeed! What others?”

“I met them in the deer park. They are coming up here. They had Jimmy
O’Loughlin’s boy with them to show them the way.”

“What others?”

“I turned at once and ran back,” said Mr. Goddard. “I don’t think they
saw me; in fact, I’m sure they didn’t. But what are we to do now?”

“I’d stand a better chance of answering that question,” said Lord
Manton, “if I knew who you were talking about.”

“The other women, Mrs. Dick and----”

“Oh, the wives of the lost Members of Parliament.”

“Yes. What shall we do?”

“Don’t say, what shall _we_ do,” said Lord Manton. “I’m not going to
do anything except sit here and watch the progress of events. I think
that’s as much as can be expected of me. Many men wouldn’t do even
that. I know lots of people who’d object to your way of filling up
their houses with strange women; but I’m giving you every latitude. If
you choose to interview your lady friends in my drawing-room, I make no
objection. But I won’t be dragged into any complications myself. That’s
the reason I don’t like your saying ‘we.’ The question is not what
shall we do, but what will you do.”

“What shall I do, then?” said Mr. Goddard.

“If you’d taken my advice,” said Lord Manton, “and married Miss Blow
half an hour ago, you wouldn’t be in this difficulty now. Your course
would have been perfectly plain. You’d simply have referred the other
ladies to Miss Blow. She would have dealt with them, and not allowed
them to do you any harm. However, I don’t want to rub in your past
mistakes. The only course open to you now is to introduce these three
to Miss Blow and let them talk the matter over quietly together while
you get Mrs. Patsy Devlin to join them.”

Wilkins entered the room while Lord Manton was speaking.

“There are some ladies to see your lordship,” he said.

“To see me? To see Mr. Goddard, you mean.”

“It was your lordship they asked for.”

“There must be some mistake,” said Lord Manton. “Go to them again,
Wilkins, and say that Mr. Goddard is here and will be delighted to see
them.”

“I don’t see what good that will be,” said Mr. Goddard. “Wait a minute.”

But Wilkins was gone. Mr. Goddard made a protest.

“Why did you give me away like that?” he asked. “If you hadn’t told
them I was here, they would never have thought of asking for me.”

“I gave you away to save myself,” said Lord Manton. “I always give
other people away when there’s any kind of unpleasantness going on.
That has been a fixed rule of mine through life, and I’ve always found
it work well.”

“Beg pardon, my lord,” said Wilkins, who returned, “but the ladies say
it’s your lordship they want to see; but they’ll be very glad to meet
Mr. Goddard too.”

“Did you ask their business, Wilkins?”

“I did, my lord. They said they heard that you were a magistrate,
and----”

“That,” said Lord Manton, “sounds about as bad as anything could be.
How many ladies were there, Wilkins?”

“Three, my lord.”

“The whole three,” said Mr. Goddard. “I told you so.”

“Where have you put them, Wilkins?”

“I showed them into the big drawing-room, my lord. The other lady was
in----”

“Well, go and change them out of that into the small drawing-room. Or,
wait a minute. It may be easier to move Miss Blow. Go and put her into
the big drawing-room along with the other three. Then shut the door and
leave them. Do you think you can manage that, Wilkins?”

“I could try, my lord.”

“Very well. Go and try. And if you succeed, don’t go to them again
until they’ve rung the bell at least a dozen times.”

“Certainly not, my lord.”

“It’s rather hard on a man of my age,” said Lord Manton, “to be hunted
out of my own house in this way by a lot of strange women. I’m not
blaming you, Goddard. All the same, if you had been reasonable about
Miss Blow we wouldn’t be in the position we are. Now, of course,
there’s nothing for it but to fly. It’s very undignified for me, being
a peer and that sort of thing. It will also, I’m afraid, be most
uncomfortable. I mind that much more than the humiliation. But there’s
nothing else for it. If I stay here they’ll catch me sooner or later.”

“What will you do?”

“I shall get out a horse and trap if I can without being noticed. I
shall drive down to the station, and lie hid in the ticket office until
the next train is due. Then I shall go to London. You’d better come
with me.”

Lord Manton’s idea was to reach the stable-yard by way of the servants’
quarters, so as to avoid passing the doors of either the big or the
small drawing-room. To do this from the library it was necessary to
go along a corridor and then cross an angle of the central hall off
which both the drawing-rooms opened. The corridor was safe. The passage
across the hall was dangerous. Unless Wilkins actually locked the
ladies in, a door might be opened at any moment.

Lord Manton and Mr. Goddard went on tiptoe along the corridor. A voice
reached them from the hall. It was Wilkins’ voice.

“This way, miss, if you please.”

“One of them has escaped,” said Mr. Goddard.

“No,” whispered Lord Manton; “it’s only Wilkins moving Miss Blow into
the big drawing-room. Wait a minute.”

They heard Wilkins’ voice again. This time it was nearer than it had
been.

“I beg your pardon, miss, but if you’ll allow me to show you the way.
You’re going in quite the wrong direction, miss.”

Mr. Goddard clutched Lord Manton’s arm. “She’s coming down here,” he
said. “We’d better----”

“It’s all right,” whispered Lord Manton. “Wilkins will head her off.”

“I’m going in the direction in which I mean to go.”

This voice was unmistakably Miss Blow’s. It was clear, resonant,
determined, and sounded very near at hand.

“Good heavens!” said Mr. Goddard.

“She’s quite right,” said Lord Manton. “She is going in the direction
in which she means to go. I rather respect her for it.”

Wilkins, walking sideways, and expostulating vehemently, appeared
at the end of the corridor. Behind him, mistress of herself and the
situation, strode Miss Blow. She caught sight of Lord Manton and Mr.
Goddard at once. She pointed to them with a finger and fixed her eyes
upon them with a terrible glare. They stood still, fascinated. The idea
of escape by running and a leap through the library window occurred
to Lord Manton. But with Miss Blow’s eyes on him he was incapable of
the effort. Wilkins, faithful to the last, walked backwards along the
corridor, in front of Miss Blow. He looked as if he meant to sacrifice
himself in order to stand between his master and Amazonian violence. He
was a good servant.

“So there you are,” said Miss Blow. “You----” Her finger, pointed at
Mr. Goddard, trembled with indignant scorn. “And you, my lord.”

There was a fine note of contempt, bitter and furious contempt, in her
voice, as she uttered the words “my lord.” There was something terrible
in the association of a title reckoned honourable by the world with the
baseness which she evidently attributed to Lord Manton.

“Yes,” said Lord Manton; “we’re both here. But why aren’t you in the
big drawing-room with the other ladies? You oughtn’t to come down here,
you know, especially without a chaperone.”

“You call yourselves gentlemen,” said Miss Blow.

“No,” said Lord Manton; “we don’t. I certainly don’t. And I should
be surprised to hear that Mr. Goddard did. The word is quite out of
fashion, I assure you. Nobody uses it nowadays. Don’t bring unjust
charges against us, Miss Blow. There are lots of things we may be
accused of with truth. We’re not the men we ought to be, especially
Mr. Goddard. Charge us with the things we’ve done, and we’ll confess
at once and apologize. But don’t be unjust. We never called ourselves
gentlemen.”

“You ran away from me yesterday,” said Miss Blow, addressing Mr.
Goddard, “after promising faithfully that you’d help me. You ran away
again to-day. You would be running away now if I hadn’t caught you in
the act.”

“He did and he would,” said Lord Manton. “I’ve just been speaking to
him about it. I told him his conduct was disgraceful. I’m glad now that
he’ll hear what you think of it from your own lips. It’ll do him good.”

Mr. Goddard frowned and shuffled uneasily. Even though he had been
fairly warned of the principle on which Lord Manton treated his friends
in emergencies, he did not expect to be sacrificed so completely and
remorselessly.

“You’re as bad yourself,” said Miss Blow.

“No,” said Lord Manton; “I’m not. Try to be just, Miss Blow. I didn’t
run away from you.”

“You’re just as bad as he is,” said Miss Blow.

Her voice was clear and loud. Lord Manton glanced anxiously towards the
hall. It was quite possible that the noise of the denunciation might
reach the drawing-room.

“Wilkins,” he said, “did you shut the door of the big drawing-room?”

“No, my lord; I understood your lordship to say that this lady----”

“Then go and do it at once. I can’t have the other three---- Miss Blow
is speaking to us in a confidential manner and doesn’t want----”

“Who are you shutting up?” said Miss Blow. “Who is your lackey going to
imprison?”

“Some ladies,” said Lord Manton. “There are, I believe, three of them.
But I’m not imprisoning them. I’m only trying to keep them where they
are for a few minutes. I’m doing it entirely on your account. They
wouldn’t be at all cheering company for you. They have, unfortunately,
just lost their husbands under the most mysterious and trying
circumstances. Members of Parliament, you know. Excellent fellows every
one of them. The whole thing is unspeakably sad.”

“Are those the ladies----?” said Miss Blow. “But of course they are.
I heard about that. Do you mean to say that you’re going to sit here
and do nothing, nothing whatever, while men are being murdered in
this wholesale manner every day? Will you make no effort to bring the
criminals to justice and prevent the loss of more human life? You,
sir,” she addressed Mr. Goddard, “you wear his Majesty’s uniform; you
are an officer in what is supposed to be a police force----”

“It is a police force,” said Mr. Goddard feebly. “It really is,
although I am an officer in it.”

“And you,” she went on, turning to Lord Manton, “you are a magistrate
besides being a peer.”

“Miss Blow,” said Lord Manton, “won’t you come into the library and sit
down? We could talk so much more comfortably if we were sitting down.
Besides, this is rather a public place for the discussion of private
affairs.”

He looked past Miss Blow towards the end of the corridor. Something
in his expression made Miss Blow turn her head. She saw, gathered in
a knot in the hall, the cook, the kitchen-maid, the upper and under
house-maid, and Wilkins. All of them, except Wilkins, were grinning.
They had forgotten all decency and the respect due to their master.
They were eagerly listening to every word Miss Blow said. She allowed
herself to be led into the library.

“Now sit down,” said Lord Manton. “You must be thoroughly tired out
after your long walk yesterday and all this excitement to-day. Will you
allow me to offer you a glass of wine and a biscuit? Goddard, ring the
bell, like a good man.”

“No,” said Miss Blow.

“A cup of tea, then? No? Or an egg flip? The cook would have it
ready in a moment. I often have an egg flip myself when I’m feeling
over-done. It’s an excellent thing, I assure you.”

“No,” said Mrs. Blow; “I’ll take nothing--nothing from you. I----”

“Well, just allow me to say one word,” said Lord Manton, “before you
begin again.”

“If you’ve any excuse to make for your behaviour,” said Miss Blow,
“make it. I shall listen to you.”

“I haven’t,” said Lord Manton. “Not a shred. Nor has Mr. Goddard. Don’t
interrupt me, Goddard. You haven’t any real excuse, and you know it.
But you mustn’t be too hard upon us, Miss Blow. Try to put yourself in
our position, in Mr. Goddard’s position, for I really haven’t anything
to do with the business one way or other. It wasn’t his fault about
those Members of Parliament. He’s just as sorry about it as anybody
else. If he’d known that they intended to run away from their wives
he’d have stopped them; but how could he know?”

“Oh!” said Miss Blow. “That is the latest theory, is it? Their husbands
ran away from them? Do you expect to get any one to believe that? I
suppose the husband of that poor woman down in the village ran away
from her. I suppose you mean to try and prove that she ill-treated
him, that she, a half-starved, delicate woman, bullied a great hulking
blacksmith. I suppose you’ll say that Dr. O’Grady ran away from me.
Last time I was here you said he ran away from his creditors. When I
proved that to be a lie, you have the assurance to say that he ran away
from me.”

“I hadn’t mentioned you or Dr. O’Grady,” said Lord Manton. “But come
now, Miss Blow, be reasonable. If he has run away from you, he wouldn’t
be the only man that has. You can’t deny that Mr. Goddard ran away
from you. He did it twice. You said so yourself. In fact, you more than
hinted that he was in the act of a third flight when you caught him.
There’s nothing inherently absurd in supposing that one man would do
what another man has done several times. I needn’t say I wouldn’t do
it myself. But that’s another matter. It’s far better for you to look
facts straight in the face, however unpleasant they are.”

Whether Miss Blow looked at the facts or not, the facts as Lord Manton
represented them, she certainly looked at Mr. Goddard. It seemed for
a moment as if she was about to re-open the question of his flight
to Ballymoy and his subsequent flight back again to Clonmore. He
felt greatly annoyed with Lord Manton for calling fresh attention to
these performances. There ought, he was convinced, to be some limit
to the extent to which a man may give away his friends. But Miss Blow
recognized that these hurried flittings of his and the causes of them
were side issues. She got back, with an evident effort, to the main
point immediately under discussion.

“And why should you suppose that the husbands of the ladies you have
shut up in your drawing-room have run away from them?”

It was of Lord Manton that she asked the question; but Mr. Goddard
answered her. He saw his opportunity and seized it. Having been
sacrificed more than once as a burnt-offering to Miss Blow’s wrath, he
was perfectly ready, now he got the chance, to show up Lord Manton, as
a man who also deserved strong denunciation.

“Lord Manton says,” said Mr. Goddard, “that their husbands couldn’t
bear to live with them any more, because they were ordinary women
and----”

“As well as I recollect,” said Lord Manton, “it was you who used the
word ‘ordinary.’ I hadn’t seen the ladies at the time. For that matter,
I haven’t seen them yet.”

“And,” said Mr. Goddard, speaking slowly and with emphasis, “because
they wear red dressing-gowns and wash their teeth.”

He glanced at Lord Manton with an expression of triumph on his face.
Miss Blow stared first at one of the men before her and then at the
other. She was amazed. In spite of the white heat of her virtuous
indignation she was reduced for the moment to a silence of sheer
astonishment. The nature of the charge brought against the wives of the
Members of Parliament took her aback. It was totally unexpected.

“Those,” said Mr. Goddard, striking home after his victory, “are the
exact expressions Lord Manton used.”

“Of course,” said Lord Manton, in an explanatory and half-apologetic
tone, “I didn’t mean to suggest that those were Patsy Devlin’s reasons
for absconding. I don’t suppose that his wife has a dressing-gown of
any colour, and as for her teeth----”

Miss Blow began to recover a little from her first shock.

“Do you mean to say,” she said, “that you consider a man is justified
in deserting his wife because she wears a red dressing-gown and washes
her teeth?”

“Certainly,” said Lord Manton. “If you consider the matter fairly
and impartially, without bias in favour of either sex, you will see
that there can’t be two opinions about it. The mere act of wearing
a dressing-gown, red or blue, is of course nothing in itself. But
considered as an expression of a certain spirit, of what I may perhaps
call the spirit of persistent, puritanical domesticity; regarded as an
evidence of an oppressive kind of civilized respectability, taken in
conjunction with a whole series of trifling, or apparently trifling,
mental and physical habits,--ordering dinner, for instance, engaging
servants, doing needlework, paying weekly bills, keeping a visiting
list, taking a holiday every year at the seaside--you will, I am sure,
understand the sort of things I mean--taken in conjunction with these
and regarded as an expression of the kind of spirit which takes a
delight in doing these things and doing them continuously year after
year--considered in this way, the wearing of a red dressing-gown does
justify a man, a certain sort of man, in deserting his wife. You catch
my meaning, I am sure, Miss Blow.”

Once more Miss Blow was silent from sheer astonishment. Then, after a
pause, she spoke, and Mr. Goddard, like the governor Felix before the
Apostle Paul, trembled. Lord Manton, although it was to him that her
remark was specially addressed, bore himself more bravely.

“You think it very fine,” she said, “to bully and badger a helpless
girl, and to allow innocent men to be murdered under your very eyes.
But you’ll have to answer for it. You’ll be held responsible, both of
you. It’s--it’s intolerable.”

“My dear Miss Blow,” said Lord Manton.

“Don’t dare to say ‘my dear’ to me.”

“I didn’t mean it,” said Lord Manton, quite truthfully. “Nothing was
further from my mind than any idea of expressing affection, although
of course I have a great regard and esteem for you. But do try to be
reasonable. We’re quite ready, both of us--I’m sure I may speak for Mr.
Goddard as well as myself--to do anything in our power. But what can we
do? What do you suggest our doing? What do you want us to do?”

“Arrest the murderers,” said Miss Blow.

“Certainly,” said Lord Manton. “Goddard, go at once and arrest the
murderers. You’re a policeman. It’s your business to arrest murderers.
Don’t waste time. Do it.”

“Who am I to arrest?” said Mr. Goddard. “I don’t know any murderers. I
don’t so much as know the name of a single murderer. If I did, I’d be
off after him at once.”

“Who is he to arrest, Miss Blow?” said Lord Manton. “You’ll have to
give him the name and address of your murderer. I suppose you know who
he is and where he lives.”

“Yes, I do,” said Miss Blow. “I didn’t at first, but now I do.”

Wilkins entered the room as she spoke. “I beg your pardon, my lord,” he
said.

“Yes, Wilkins, what is it? Be as quick as you can, Wilkins. We are at a
most interesting point of our conversation. Miss Blow is just going to
reveal to us the name of a murderer, and then Mr. Goddard is going out
to arrest him.”

“I beg pardon, my lord, but the ladies in the big drawing-room have
been ringing the bell.”

“Much, Wilkins? I mean to say, have they been ringing it an excessive
number of times, or very hard? There is no harm in their ringing
moderately. I should wish them to ring when they want anything.”

“They’ve been ringing a good deal, my lord.”

“Are they still ringing?”

“Yes, my lord. That’s the reason I mentioned it. I thought there might
be something you would wish me to say to them.”

“Quite right,” said Lord Manton. “I’m very glad you told me. My idea
would be for you to offer them a cup of tea or something of that
sort to keep them quiet. Or what would you say, Miss Blow, if we had
them down here? They might take to smashing up the furniture and the
ornaments if I keep them there much longer. There’s some china in the
room that I’d be sorry to lose. Not very valuable, you know, but still
things that it would be difficult to replace. Don’t tell us the name
of your murderer for a minute or two. Mr. Goddard and I will restrain
our impatience. I’d like the other ladies to be here when you make the
revelation. I’m sure they’d enjoy hearing all about it. Wilkins, will
you kindly go to the big drawing-room and ask the three ladies to be
good enough to come down here?”



CHAPTER XVIII


After a delay of about five minutes Wilkins opened the door of the
library again.

“Miss Farquharson, Mrs. Sanders, and Mrs. Dick,” he announced, giving
the names in the order in which he had received them from Miss
Farquharson, who had taken command of the party.

She entered the room first. Her face was pale with anxiety. Her manner
and expression were those of a woman who was very much in earnest. Her
hat, a severe garment of grey felt adorned with a single bow of black
ribbon, was pushed to one side of her head. Her hair, hurriedly pinned
into place early in the morning, was untidy. She looked as if she had
been working so hard as to have had scant leisure for attention to the
details of her toilet. Mrs. Dick followed her. She was tremulous and
showed signs of having wept frequently and bitterly during the earlier
part of the day. Mrs. Sanders, a sallow, lean woman of about five and
thirty, seemed frightened and bewildered.

“I hope,” said Miss Farquharson, “that we are not intruding on you. Our
business is really very important. That must be our excuse.”

“Not in the least,” said Lord Manton. “We are delighted to see you.
As a matter of fact, you couldn’t have come at a more appropriate
moment. Miss Blow is just--but won’t you sit down? You’ll be much more
comfortable sitting down.”

He pulled a chair forward towards Mrs. Dick, who collapsed into it
and took out her pocket-handkerchief. Mrs. Sanders perched herself
uncomfortably on a corner of the sofa. Miss Farquharson sat upright in
the writing-chair which stood in front of Lord Manton’s desk.

“Miss Blow,” said Lord Manton, “is just going to tell us the name of
the man who has murdered your husbands.”

Mrs. Dick gave a queer cry, half wail, half whoop, a loud cry, ending
in a gasp.

“Murdered;” she cried. “Murdered! Oh, no, no, not murdered!”

“Certainly not murdered,” said Lord Manton. “That’s only what Miss Blow
says. I don’t believe they’re murdered. Neither does Mr. Goddard, and
if anybody knows the ins and outs of this unfortunate business it’s Mr.
Goddard. He’s a policeman, the chief policeman of this district. It
stands to reason that he must know. Don’t be the least uneasy, ladies.
There’s no necessity for tears. Nobody is murdered.”

Mrs. Dick allowed herself to be a little comforted by this strong
assurance. She stopped making any very loud noise and let her crying
subside into a subdued and inoffensive whimper. On the other hand, Miss
Blow was evidently enraged by Lord Manton’s scepticism. Her voice, when
she spoke, sounded defiant and extremely angry.

“I denounce the inhabitants of the house called Rosivera,” she said,
“especially the man Red. I denounce them as the murderers of Dr.
O’Grady, Patrick Devlin, and of the husbands of these ladies.”

“Go,” said Lord Manton to Mr. Goddard, “and arrest the man Red at
once.”

He liked the phrase “the man Red.” It sounded as if it came out of a
newspaper report of a criminal trial. It was evident that Miss Blow had
a feeling for appropriate expression.

“Arrest the man Red,” repeated Lord Manton, seeing that Mr. Goddard had
not moved.

He was perfectly willing that Mr. Red should be arrested, tried,
imprisoned, hanged; or arrested, imprisoned, and hanged without a
trial, on a charge of murder or any other charge. The really important
thing was not to obtain justice for Mr. Red or anybody else, but to get
Miss Blow out of his house.

“Do go and arrest the man Red, Goddard,” he said again.

“I can’t,” said Mr. Goddard. “How can I possibly go and arrest a man
without a single scrap of evidence against him?”

“You hear what he says,” said Lord Manton to Miss Blow. “He won’t
act without evidence. Why don’t you produce your evidence? You have
evidence, of course.”

“You shall hear the evidence,” said Miss Blow. “I have evidence that
four, if not five abominable murders have been committed by this man
and his confederates.”

“There now, Goddard,” said Lord Manton, “what more can you want? Good
gracious, what’s that?”

It was Mrs. Dick. Miss Blow’s last words had been too much for her.
She was uttering a series of wild shrieks. Mrs. Sanders was sobbing
convulsively on the sofa.

“We’ll have to go into another room,” said Lord Manton, “to hear the
evidence.”

“No,” said Miss Farquharson. “Now we are here we’ll stay here. I am
anxious to hear what this lady has to say.”

“But,” said Lord Manton, “we can’t possibly hear anything while----”

Miss Farquharson approached Mrs. Dick, grasped her two hands, and spoke
sternly to her. She repeated the treatment with her niece. It was
most efficacious. Both the younger ladies seemed to be afraid of Miss
Farquharson. They had a cowed, terrified look when she left them; but
they had stopped making a noise.

“Thank you,” said Lord Manton. “Now, Miss Blow.”

“I begin,” said Miss Blow, “with the two latest cases. These gentlemen,
Members of Parliament, as I understand, set out on their bicycles, to
ride to Pool-a-donagh. They did not arrive there. They were seen in
safety three miles out of Clonmore by a man who was carting turf.”

“How do you know that?” said Mr. Goddard.

“The hotel-keeper told me,” said Miss Blow.

“Oh, Jimmy O’Loughlin! I see. I wouldn’t take every word he says for
gospel if I were you, Miss Blow.”

“I don’t see,” said Miss Blow, “that there’s much difference between
him and the rest of you. I haven’t heard six consecutive words of truth
since I came to Clonmore.”

“There you are now, Goddard,” said Lord Manton. “That’s what you get by
interrupting. Don’t mind him, Miss Blow. Please go on. What you say is
most interesting.”

“There is just one house between the spot at which they were seen and
Pool-a-donagh,” said Miss Blow. “The hotel-keeper told me that too.”

“I think that’s true,” said Miss Farquharson. “I noticed that there
were very few houses while we drove along yesterday.”

“Therefore,” said Miss Blow, “they were murdered in that house.”

Mr. Goddard started violently. The sequence of Miss Blow’s reasoning
had the effect of a strong electric shock on him. He would have
protested if Mrs. Dick had not begun to wail again. When she was
pacified by Miss Farquharson’s scowls, Lord Manton began to speak.

“Perhaps----” he said.

“I know what you’re going to say,” said Miss Blow. “You are going to
suggest that they are not murdered, but that they have deserted their
wives.” She glanced at Miss Farquharson as she spoke.

“I wish you wouldn’t talk of us as if we were all their wives,” said
Miss Farquharson. “I am not a married woman. I am Mr. Sanders’ aunt.
That is his wife.”

She pointed to the pale Mrs. Sanders, leaving Miss Blow to infer that
the lady who shrieked was the wife of the other Member of Parliament.

“That they have deserted these ladies,” said Miss Blow, accepting the
correction, “because they wear red dressing-gowns, and----”

“But I don’t,” wailed Mrs. Dick; “I’ve never had a red dressing-gown.
Richard always liked me in blue. He couldn’t bear red. He used to
say---- Oh, poor Richard!”

“There!” said Lord Manton, with an air of triumph; “what did I tell
you, Miss Blow? You see for yourself now that the man had the strongest
possible objection to a red dressing-gown.”

“And,” said Miss Blow firmly, ignoring the interruptions, “because they
washed their teeth.”

“I never in my life,” said Miss Farquharson, “heard such a pack
of nonsense. Are you all mad, or am I? What on earth have red
dressing-gowns or that unfortunate little Mrs. Dick’s teeth got to do
with the disappearance of my nephew and Mr. Dick?”

“Shall I ring for some tea?” said Lord Manton. “I think we’d all be the
better for a cup of tea. Then we could go on. We’d be much better able
to understand each other afterwards.”

“I pass on to the next case,” said Miss Blow calmly; “that of Patrick
Devlin. He is, I am informed----”

“Jimmy O’Loughlin again,” said Mr. Goddard.

“By others as well as the hotel-keeper,” said Miss Blow, showing that
she placed no implicit trust in Jimmy O’Loughlin’s statements. “I am
informed that he is a blacksmith. He was, it appears, collecting money
for some local sports.”

“Grand Annual Regatta and Horse Races,” said Lord Manton. “I’m a
member of the committee, and so I know. Please excuse me interrupting
you, Miss Blow, but in a case like this it’s as well to be perfectly
accurate.”

“He informed the hotel-keeper in Clonmore----” said Miss Blow.

“I propose,” said Mr. Goddard, “that we send down for Jimmy O’Loughlin,
and let him give his evidence himself.”

“That he intended to call on Lord Manton for a subscription and then go
on to Rosivera to see what he could get from the man Red. Did he call
here?”

“Certainly,” said Lord Manton. “I gave him a sovereign.”

“After that,” said Miss Blow, “he was seen no more. It seems to me
perfectly obvious that he went on to Rosivera and was there murdered.”

Poor Mrs. Dick wailed again, and was again suppressed, this time very
rapidly, by Miss Farquharson.

“There remains,” said Miss Blow, “the case of Dr. O’Grady; but before I
go into that I have to inform you that there is another man missing.”

“My goodness!” said Lord Manton. “The thing is becoming a perfect
epidemic. Who is it now?”

“Jimmy O’Loughlin, I hope and trust,” said Mr. Goddard. “He’s been
dragged into this business by everybody that has said anything. It’s
always Jimmy O’Loughlin told me this or Jimmy O’Loughlin told me that.
If he’s gone off himself now it serves him jolly well right.”

“It’s not Mr. O’Loughlin,” said Miss Blow, “but the man Red’s own
servant, an Englishman. This man used to drive the motor car into
Clonmore to do the marketing for the party at Rosivera.”

“At Jimmy O’Loughlin’s shop, of course,” said Mr. Goddard.

“He did so for the last time the day before Dr. O’Grady’s
disappearance. The inference is perfectly plain. The man was mortally
wounded. Dr. O’Grady was decoyed to Rosivera because his services as
a medical man were required. Then he too, to secure his silence, was
foully murdered.”

Mr. Goddard gasped. For the second time Miss Blow’s logic took away
his breath. He tried to speak, but failed. Three times he got as far as
uttering the word “but” and then stuck fast. Lord Manton, who remained
comparatively calm, offered a mild criticism.

“There is just one point,” he said, “in the course of your extremely
able and lucid statement, on which I should like to have a word of
explanation. I have no doubt that you have thought the matter out
carefully, and will be able to meet my difficulty at once. You say--and
of course I don’t contradict you--that Mr. Red, I mean the man Red, of
course, first tried to murder his own servant and then sent for Dr.
O’Grady to cure him. Now, why should a man get a doctor for the person
he’s trying to kill? Wouldn’t it have been simpler--I mean to say, do
murderers generally summon medical assistance for their victims?”

“I am not concerned with his reasons for acting as he did,” said Miss
Blow. “I am dealing simply with what has occurred, with plain facts.
Now, perhaps, you will do your duty, Mr. Goddard, and arrest the
murderers.”

“But,” said Mr. Goddard, “you haven’t given us any evidence at all.
You’ve spun out a lot of wild hypotheses, supported by information
given you by Jimmy O’Loughlin, who is the biggest liar in Connacht.
It’s perfectly absurd to suppose----”

“I join with this lady,” said Miss Farquharson, “with this lady whose
name, as I understand, is Miss Blow, in demanding the arrest of the
suspected persons.”

“Oh, no, no,” wailed Mrs. Dick. “Don’t arrest them. Let us forgive
them; but bring Richard back to me. It’s cruel, cruel. I can’t
live--oh, I can’t----”

Her voice died away to a whisper. Miss Farquharson was gazing at her
with a very stern expression.

“I can’t,” said Mr. Goddard, “and won’t allow myself to be hustled into
a perfectly illegal act. The thing’s----”

“You’ll have to do it sooner or later,” said Lord Manton. “Why not do
it at once? After all, what does it matter about the man Red? It won’t
do him any harm to be arrested. If he doesn’t deserve it for murdering
Dr. O’Grady and the rest of them, he’s sure to deserve it for something
else that we know nothing about.”

“I’m not thinking about Mr. Red’s feelings in the matter. I don’t care
if he’s hanged, drawn, and quartered, so long as Miss Blow does it
herself. But I’m not going to be dragged into a----”

“Look here,” said Lord Manton in a whisper, “you must do it, Goddard.
If you don’t, I shall never get these ladies out of the house.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Goddard, “I’ll do it; but I’ll do it on your
authority. Make out a warrant in proper form and sign it. Then I’ll go
and arrest Red.”

“Certainly,” said Lord Manton. “I haven’t got the--ah--the necessary
papers here, you know. I don’t keep them in the house. Go down to the
Clerk of Petty Sessions, Miss Blow. You’ll find him in his office. Get
him to fill the form in the proper way. He’ll understand. Then send
it up to me by one of the police. I’ll sign it and hand it on to Mr.
Goddard. I think that will be the most satisfactory arrangement we can
make. Don’t you?”

He appealed to Miss Farquharson, carefully avoiding Miss Blow’s eye.

“Certainly,” said Miss Farquharson. “Everything ought to be done in a
strictly legal manner.”

“Then I suppose,” said Lord Manton, “that our interview is at an end.
Shall I order the carriage, Miss Blow, to take you down to Clonmore? It
will save time.”

“It would be very kind of you to do so,” said Miss Farquharson. “I am
quite able and willing to walk, but my niece and Mrs. Dick are upset
and greatly tired.”

“I shall stay here,” said Miss Blow; “I shall not let Lord Manton out
of my sight till the warrant is signed.”

Miss Farquharson started. This expression of want of faith in the
good will of a peer shocked her. She expostulated with Miss Blow, but
without effect.

“I shall then go with Mr. Goddard,” said Miss Blow, “and see that he
executes the warrant.”

“Really,” said Miss Farquharson, “I don’t understand--I altogether
refuse to associate myself with this discourteous language.”

“I know these gentlemen,” said Miss Blow, “and you don’t. I’ve had some
experience of the way they keep their promises.”

“I dissociate myself entirely----” said Miss Farquharson.

“I appreciate Miss Blow’s feeling,” said Lord Manton. “I quite
understand it. I even sympathize with it. There has been a good deal
in Mr. Goddard’s conduct during the last few days which justifies her
suspicions. I----”

“And in your own conduct,” said Miss Blow.

“And in my own conduct, of course,” said Lord Manton. “Didn’t I say
that? I meant to. We have acted for the best. You, at least, will
believe that, Miss Farquharson. If Miss Blow has not fully realized our
difficulties, that is not her fault. I don’t in the least blame her for
the attitude she has taken up. Nor does Mr. Goddard.”

Mr. Goddard looked as if he did blame her, but he said nothing. The
swift glances of appeal which Lord Manton shot at him were sufficient
to keep him silent.

“What I propose now,” said Lord Manton, “is that Mr. Goddard and I
should accompany you to the village, so that Miss Blow shall have the
opportunity of seeing with her own eyes that her wish with regard to
the man Red is carried out.”

“That will be giving you far too much trouble,” said Miss Farquharson.

“Not at all,” said Lord Manton. “I’m delighted to do it. Mr. Goddard,
the bell is just beside you; will you be so good as to ring it? I shall
order the waggonette to take us down. And I think you must allow me
to offer you some tea. You can drink it while the horses are being
harnessed, and so waste no time.”

“It’s very kind of you,” said Miss Farquharson, “most kind; we shall be
very glad----”

“I shall neither eat nor drink in this house,” said Miss Blow.

“I quite understand your feeling,” said Lord Manton. “There was a
prophet once who said the same thing. As well as I recollect, a lion
ate him afterwards; but of course that won’t happen in your case, Miss
Blow. There aren’t any lions in Connacht.“

”_I_,” said Miss Farquharson, with strong emphasis on the pronoun,
“shall be very pleased to accept Lord Manton’s hospitality in the
spirit in which it is offered.”

“Thank you,” said Lord Manton. “And I’m sure Miss Blow won’t have the
least objection to your doing so. She holds her own opinions, as we all
do; but from what I know of her I’m convinced that she doesn’t want to
force them upon other people.”

“It is understood,” said Miss Blow, “that I accompany Mr. Goddard when
he goes to arrest the murderers.”

“He may not go himself,” said Lord Manton. “You will understand, Miss
Blow, that it is not usual for a man in Mr. Goddard’s position, for an
officer, to make arrests in person. It is probable that he will send
Sergeant Farrelly and perhaps one of the constables.”

“I shall accompany the sergeant, then,” said Miss Blow.



CHAPTER XIX


Lord Manton’s waggonette was a roomy vehicle, used chiefly for picnic
parties in the summer, when Lady Flavia and her children were at
Clonmore Castle. The four ladies, Lord Manton, and Mr. Goddard packed
themselves into it quite comfortably. Lord Manton gave his order to the
coachman.

“Down to the village, Thomas, and stop at the hotel.”

Miss Blow was alert and suspicious. “Why the hotel?” she asked.

“I’ll go to the police barrack if you like,” said Lord Manton. “I only
suggested the hotel because it is a convenient central sort of place
with a room in it large enough to hold the whole party.”

“The hotel is decidedly the most suitable place,” said Miss Farquharson.

She was beginning to dislike Miss Blow, whose manner struck her as
aggressive to a degree quite unsuitable in a young woman. On the other
hand, she highly approved of Lord Manton, who was most courteous and
had given her tea, which she wanted badly.

“Besides,” said Mr. Goddard, “we shall be sure of seeing Jimmy
O’Loughlin at the hotel.”

“I don’t see why Mr. O’Loughlin should be mixed up in our business,”
said Miss Blow.

“Nor do I,” said Mr. Goddard. “I’ve always protested against the way
he’s dragged in. But everybody does it. Sergeant Farrelly can’t say a
simple sentence without quoting Jimmy as his authority; and you did the
same thing yourself repeatedly when you were elaborating your theory of
murder.”

“Besides,” said Lord Manton, “Jimmy O’Loughlin is a magistrate. He’s
really far more of a magistrate than I am.”

“If he’s a magistrate,” said Miss Farquharson, “we ought to consult
him.”

“He’s a liar,” said Miss Blow definitely.

“Really!” said Miss Farquharson.

Then she turned her back on Miss Blow, who sat next her, and looked
with great interest at the horses. Mr. Goddard leaned across the
waggonette and whispered to Lord Manton.

“What do you mean to do when we get to the hotel?”

“Hush!” said Lord Manton.

Miss Blow’s eyes were fixed on him, and he felt that confidences were
dangerous.

Jimmy O’Loughlin greeted the party at the door of his hotel. He was
surprised to see them. He was still more surprised when Lord Manton
demanded the use of a private sitting-room.

“There’s the commercial room,” he said, “and there’s the drawing-room.
You can have the two of them if I you like, for there isn’t a soul
stopping in the house this minute barring the doctor’s young lady.
It’ll be better, maybe, for you to take the commercial room by reason
of there being a key to the door, so as you’ll be able to lock it if
you heard Bridgy coming along the passage.”

“What are you going to do now?” said Mr. Goddard, catching Lord Manton
by the arm, as the ladies entered the commercial room.

“I’m going to persuade Jimmy O’Loughlin to sign the warrant, if I
possibly can,” said Lord Manton.

“He’ll not do it. Jimmy O’Loughlin’s not a born fool.”

“Then I’m afraid,” said Lord Manton, “that you’ll have to arrest the
man Red without a warrant.”

“I won’t,” said Mr. Goddard.

“Send the sergeant, then.”

“I won’t.”

“Couldn’t you send the sergeant and a constable and tell them to
inquire civilly of Mr. Red whether he’d seen anything of the Members
of Parliament? It’s quite a natural thing to ask. They passed his gate
yesterday, and he might have seen them. We could give the sergeant some
sort of a blue paper in the presence of Miss Blow and pretend that he
was going to make the arrest.”

“That’s no good,” said Mr. Goddard. “She said she’d go and see the
arrest made herself, and she’ll do it.”

“Send the men on bicycles,” said Lord Manton, “then she won’t be able
to keep up with them.”

“The objection to that is that she has a bicycle herself. I don’t know
how she got it, but she rode over on it from Ballymoy this morning.
Moriarty might get ahead of her, but she’d knock spots out of the
sergeant in a race; he’s fat.”

“Jimmy O’Loughlin,” said Lord Manton, “come here.”

Jimmy was leaning in a careless attitude against the doorpost of his
hotel. He appeared to be entirely uninterested in what was going on,
and was surprised when Lord Manton called him.

“Jimmy O’Loughlin,” said Lord Manton, “Mr. Goddard is sending a couple
of police over to Rosivera to see if there’s any news there of the
gentlemen that have got lost, and he doesn’t want Miss Blow to go with
them. Can you think of any way of stopping her?”

“Her mind’s made up to go,” said Mr. Goddard.

Jimmy meditated on the problem.

“If so be,” he said at last, “that I could get the boots off of her,
and had them hid in the haggard where she wouldn’t find them easy, she
couldn’t go.”

“She could not,” said Mr. Goddard. “But how do you propose to get them
off her?”

“I was thinking,” said Jimmy, “that if his lordship here would draw
down the subject of boots, and was to say that all boots was the better
of being cleaned, and then if I was to say that Bridgy was doing
nothing particular and would be glad to give a rub to any lady’s boots
that liked, that maybe she’d take them off herself.”

“If that’s the best you can do in the way of a suggestion,” said Mr.
Goddard, “you might as well have kept it to yourself. Is it likely
she’d take off her boots at this hour of the day to please you?”

“It wouldn’t be to please me,” said Jimmy; “it would be his lordship
that would ask her at the latter end.”

“I’m afraid,” said Lord Manton, “she wouldn’t do it for me. She doesn’t
like me. You’d think she would, but as a matter of fact she doesn’t.”

“How would it be,” said Jimmy, “if I was to have a telegram for her?
The young lady that minds the post-office is a niece of my own. It
might be in it that it was from the doctor himself and came from New
York. That would turn her mind away from the police.”

“She wouldn’t believe it,” said Mr. Goddard. “Not if you were to go in
and swear to it on a Bible. She says you’re an awful liar.”

“Begad, then, I don’t know what it would be best to do.”

Sergeant Farrelly, Constable Cole, and Constable Moriarty arrived at
the door. They had been summoned by Lord Manton’s coachman after he had
deposited the party at the hotel. The situation was explained to them
by Mr. Goddard. Sergeant Farrelly expressed perfect readiness to go to
Rosivera and make any inquiries that were considered necessary. When
asked whether he could escape without Miss Blow, he looked blank. As a
matter of fact, Miss Blow had opened the door of the commercial room
and was watching the party in the hall with suspicious eyes.

“Unless,” said Constable Cole, “we could hit on some kind of a
stratagem.”

“You and your stratagems,” said the sergeant; “we’ve heard enough of
them.”

“If you have a stratagem in your mind,” said Mr. Goddard, “trot it out.
But there’s no use your suggesting taking her boots, or sending her a
bogus telegram. We’ve discussed those two plans already.”

“Don’t you give heed to him,” said the sergeant. “Stratagems is never
out of his mouth, and there’s no sense at all in what he says.”

“How would it be,” said Constable Cole, “if the sergeant and myself was
to go off to Rosivera on our bikes?”

“That’s been suggested before,” said Mr. Goddard, “and it’s no good.
She has a bicycle herself, and she’d go with you.”

“Sure he knows she has a bicycle,” said Jimmy O’Loughlin. “Didn’t he
see her riding in on it this morning, the time you were off up at the
Castle? And didn’t he remark on its being mighty like the machine that
the sergeant’s wife beyond in Ballymoy is after buying?”

“I did,” said Constable Cole.

“If you knew all that,” said Mr. Goddard, “what on earth was the good
of your suggesting that you and the sergeant should go on bicycles?
Don’t you know she’d be after you?”

“Stratagems!” said Sergeant Farrelly scornfully. “Do you call them
stratagems?”

“How would it be,” said Constable Cole, “if you was to go in to her
and tell her that it was Constable Moriarty that was to go with the
sergeant to Rosivera?”

“I dislike telling gratuitous and entirely useless lies,” said Mr.
Goddard. “She simply wouldn’t believe me.”

“She’d believe Moriarty,” said Cole. “She has a great wish for Moriarty
since the day he took her for a drive on Jimmy O’Loughlin’s car. If
Moriarty was to go in as soon as ever you were done telling her, and
was to say he’d be glad if she’d go along with him----”

“I couldn’t say the like to a young lady,” said Moriarty. “I’d be
ashamed.”

“Be quiet, Moriarty,” said Mr. Goddard. “And let’s hear the rest of the
stratagem.”

“And if he was to say at the same time----” said Cole.

“If who was to say?” asked Lord Manton. “I’m getting mixed.”

“Constable Moriarty,” said Cole; “if he was to say that it would be a
pleasure to him to go round to the yard and get her bicycle for her the
way she’d be ready to go with him and the sergeant----”

“I see,” said Lord Manton.

“She’d go with him to the yard,” said Mr. Goddard. “Don’t forget that.”

“She would,” said Cole, “and on the way there she’d see Moriarty’s
bicycle and another, as it might be the sergeant’s.”

“But of course it wouldn’t be the sergeant’s,” said Lord Manton.

“It would not. The sergeant and myself might be off by that time a good
bit along the road to Rosivera. But the bicycle she’d see would have a
look about it as if it might be the sergeant’s. It could have his cape
strapped on it and maybe his name somewhere about so as she’d notice
it.”

“It’s just possible,” said Mr. Goddard, “that if she has the sort of
confidence you say she has in Moriarty she’ll be taken in for five
minutes; but at the end of that time she’ll be off after you.”

“I wouldn’t wonder,” said Cole, “but the back tyre of her own bicycle
might be flat.”

He looked at Jimmy O’Loughlin as he spoke. His face was entirely devoid
of any expression, but Jimmy was a man of quick wit.

“Bridgy?” he said.

“Bridgy’d do,” he said.

“Do what?” said Lord Manton. “I’m getting mixed again.”

“With the blade of a knife?” said Jimmy O’Loughlin.

“That, or a three-pronged fork,” said Cole, “unbeknown to any but
herself.”

“It could be done,” said Jimmy O’Loughlin, “and Bridgy’s the girl for
the job.”

“Constable Moriarty,” said Cole, “would offer to mend it for her,
while they’d be waiting for the sergeant, who’d be down at the barrack
getting the handcuffs.”

“Oiling them,” said Lord Manton.

“Oiling or such,” said Cole.

“Where’s the use of oiling handcuffs?” said the sergeant.

“Shut up, sergeant,” said Mr. Goddard. “That’s part of the stratagem.”

“Constable Moriarty,” said Cole, “would be talking to her pleasant and
agreeable the way he’d distract her mind and him mending the tyre. It’s
himself knows how to talk to a young lady.”

“I do not,” said Moriarty. “She’d be laughing at me.”

“She’ll not laugh,” said Mr. Goddard. “That’s one thing you may feel
quite sure about. Whatever else she does, she’ll not laugh.”

“I’m not fit to talk to her,” said Moriarty.

“You’re not fit to mend a tyre either,” said Cole; “mind that now. When
you have the hole there is in it with a patch on it, and you’re putting
back the cover on the wheel you’d nip the inner tube so as there be a
bit took out of it.”

“Do you take me for a fool?” said Moriarty. “Haven’t I mended----”

“I’ll take you for a fool,” said Mr. Goddard, “if you don’t do exactly
what you’re told.”

“After that,” said Cole, “you’ll have to mend the tyre again; and I’d
say, if you’re any kind of good at all, that by the time you’ve done
with it it’ll be beyond the help of man in the way of holding the air.”

“It’s a great stratagem,” said Lord Manton; “I never heard a better.”

“It’s what I was reading in a book one time,” said Cole. “You know the
book, sergeant----”

“I’ve heard you speaking about it,” said the sergeant, “many a time.”

“Well,” said Cole, “that stratagem was in it. It was a young fellow
that was off with a girl that he was wishing to marry and her father
was after them. It was bicycles they had. And the young fellow gave
half a crown to the man in the hotel to do the like to the old chap’s
bicycle the way he’d get off with the girl.”

“Whether the idea is absolutely original or not,” said Lord Manton,
“you deserve the greatest credit for applying it to this particular
case.”

“It was in my mind,” said Cole, “and I just said to myself that maybe,
if I didn’t forget it, it might come in handy some day.”

“At the latter end,” said Moriarty, “she’ll be asking where the
sergeant is.”

“At the latter end,” said Mr. Goddard, “when the bicycle’s quite past
mending, you can tell her that he was obliged to start to Rosivera
without her and take Cole along with him.”

“She’ll have the face ate off me when I do,” said Moriarty.

“If she does,” said Mr. Goddard, “it won’t make much matter to you or
any one else. The new one you’ll get can’t be worse to look at than the
one you have.”

“I don’t know,” said Sergeant Farrelly, “how will the sergeant’s wife
at Ballymoy like having them tricks played with her bicycle. She’s a
cousin of my own.”

He had never had a high opinion of Cole’s stratagems, and it pained him
to have to listen to the praise bestowed on this one.

“She can get a new tyre,” said Mr. Goddard; “and serve her jolly well
right for lending her bicycle to Miss Blow. She ought to have had more
sense.”

A few minutes later Lord Manton and Mr. Goddard entered the commercial
room of the hotel. They had with them a warrant for the arrest of
Theodore Guy Red of Rosivera on a charge of wilful murder. They spread
this out on the table and invited Miss Blow to inspect it. She did so,
scanning every line carefully.

“It’s not signed,” she said.

“No,” said Lord Manton. “We thought you’d prefer to have it signed in
your presence. Kindly ring the bell, Mr. Goddard.”

“What for?” said Miss Blow.

“I want a pen and ink, for one thing,” said Lord Manton. “And I want
Jimmy O’Loughlin. He’s going to sign it too.”

Miss Blow sniffed, but she made no objection to the second signature.

“Now,” said Lord Manton, when he and Jimmy O’Loughlin had signed their
names, “call in the sergeant and the constable.”

Mr. Goddard opened the door and summoned the police. They marched into
the room and stood upright, rigid and impressive, near the door. They
made a great impression on Miss Farquharson. Sergeant Farrelly, in
particular, struck her as a kind of embodiment of the spirit of law
and order. Mr. Goddard held the warrant in his hand and addressed the
men.

“Sergeant Farrelly,” he said, “will take this warrant, proceed at once
to Rosivera, and effect the arrest of Theodore Guy Red, the person
named in it.”

He looked round as he finished his sentence, and noticed with pleasure
that Miss Blow was listening intently to what he said.

“Constable Moriarty,” he went on, “will accompany the sergeant, and
will be prepared to act vigorously in the event of the use of force
being necessary to effect the capture of the prisoner.”

He looked round again at Miss Blow. Her face was beginning to assume
quite an amiable expression.

“With a view to saving time,” said Mr. Goddard, “the police will
proceed to Rosivera on bicycles, starting as soon as possible. Sergeant
Farrelly, is your bicycle ready?”

“It is, sir,” said the sergeant. “It’s at the door of the hotel this
minute, and my cape is strapped on to the handle bars.”

“Is Constable Moriarty’s bicycle ready?” asked Mr. Goddard.

“It is, sir,” said the sergeant.

“The police,” said Mr. Goddard, “will be accompanied on this expedition
by Miss Blow. Every effort, consistent with the effecting of the
arrest, will be made by the police to protect Miss Blow in the event of
riot.”

“It will, sir.”

“By the way, Miss Blow,” said Mr. Goddard, “have you got a bicycle?”

“Yes,” said Miss Blow. “I borrowed one this morning in Ballymoy. It’s
in the hotel yard now.”

“It’s in the stable,” said Jimmy O’Loughlin. “I’m after telling Bridgy
to give it a bit of a rub over with a soft cloth the way it’ll be
decent like, when the young lady wants it.”

“Sergeant Farrelly,” said Mr. Goddard, “will now proceed to the barrack
and provide himself with handcuffs.”

“Carefully oiled,” said Lord Manton.

“He will be accompanied by Constable Cole, who will remain on guard
at the barrack. Having obtained the handcuffs, Sergeant Farrelly will
return to the hotel and join the rest of the party. Constable Moriarty
will proceed to the back yard, take Miss Blow’s bicycle and wheel it
round to the front door, so that everything will be in readiness for an
immediate start when Sergeant Farrelly returns with the handcuffs.”

“I can get my bicycle for myself,” said Miss Blow.

“It would be too much trouble for you, miss,” said Jimmy O’Loughlin.
“But of course, if the young lady’s doubtful about the way Moriarty
might handle it, she’s right to go. It’s a good bicycle,” he added,
“though I’d say that maybe the back tyre of it was a bit worn.”

Miss Blow, accompanied by Moriarty, who looked extremely uncomfortable,
left the room. Sergeant Farrelly and Constable Cole marched rapidly
down the street towards the barrack.

“I think, ladies,” said Lord Manton, “that Mr. Goddard and I will leave
you for the present. We shall see you this evening again, so we need
not say good-bye.”

“That,” said Lord Manton to Mr. Goddard as they walked together across
the deer park, “was a good stratagem. I don’t altogether envy Moriarty
when it comes to its climax; but Cole certainly deserves promotion.”

“I don’t see that it’s much use in reality,” said Mr. Goddard. “It’s
only putting off the evil day, you know. When the sergeant comes back
from Rosivera we’ll have the whole thing to do over again.”

“You told him not to hurry, I hope,” said Lord Manton.

“I told him to spend as long over the job as he possibly could. I told
him not to be back before six this evening at the very earliest. But
what’s the good of that? He’s bound to come back some time.”

“Still, it’s always so much time gained. We may hear something of the
missing men before then. You’ll telegraph all over the country, of
course.”

“I’ll go back at once,” said Mr. Goddard, “and take entire possession
of the telegraph office.”

“Come up and have some luncheon first. The afternoon will be time
enough for the telegrams.”



CHAPTER XX


There are, as Patsy Devlin reminded Jimmy O’Loughlin on the occasion
of Miss Blow’s first visit to Lord Manton, two ways of getting to the
Castle from the village of Clonmore. There is the longer way by the
great avenue which leads through the demesne and is remarkable for its
fine rows of beech trees. By it all visitors who drive must go. They
leave the public road a mile to the east of the village, having passed,
supposing them to start from Jimmy O’Loughlin’s hotel, both the police
barrack and the railway station. There is also the shorter way through
the deer park, available only for foot passengers, because it is
necessary in the first place to climb a boundary wall. The visitor who
goes by this route, supposing once more that he starts from the hotel,
leaves the village, and walks in a westerly direction until he comes to
the spot where the wall is partially broken down and therefore easy to
climb. He passes no building of any importance on his way, because the
hotel is almost the last house at the west end of the village street.

When luncheon was over Mr. Goddard spoke of going down to Clonmore to
send off his telegrams. Lord Manton offered to order the dog-cart and
have him driven down. Mr. Goddard refused.

“You’d much better let me,” said Lord Manton. “It will save you a lot
of time and do the cob good. He hasn’t been out for two days. I’ve
been afraid to put my nose outside the place for fear of meeting the
police.”

“I’d like to drive well enough,” said Mr. Goddard, “but I daren’t. The
fact is, I want to get into the telegraph office without being seen,
if possible. Miss Blow is sure to be at the barrack, and I’m a little
nervous about passing the door.”

The post-office in Clonmore is a sort of bye-product of Jimmy
O’Loughlin’s commercial activity. The business is carried on in a
corner of his shop, and the shop itself is an adjunct of the hotel.
Approaching the village from the west you come upon the shop door
first, then that of the hotel.

“I dare say you’re right,” said Lord Manton. “Unless Moriarty is a
young man with quite remarkable powers of persuasion, Miss Blow’s
temper is likely to be very bad indeed.”

“She’ll find out, of course,” said Mr. Goddard, “that the sergeant
really has gone off in the direction of Rosivera, and taken Cole with
him. That ought to pacify her to some extent. Still, I think I’ll avoid
an interview as long as I can.”

By walking through the deer park and approaching the village
cautiously, Mr. Goddard succeeded in getting into the post-office
unseen. After a short search he discovered Jimmy O’Loughlin’s
niece, a red-haired girl, who sold stamps and sent off and received
telegrams. She was indulging in what looked like a flirtation with the
station-master, in the millinery department of the shop. Mr. Goddard
called her away from her companion.

“Susy Lizzie,” he said, “come here. I want you.”

“Is it stamps?” she asked, “or is it a postal order?”

“It’s neither the one nor the other,” said Mr. Goddard; “it’s a
telegram. In fact, it’s as many telegrams as will keep you busy for the
rest of the afternoon, so there won’t be any use the station-master
waiting for you till you’ve done.”

Susy Lizzie tossed her head and walked defiantly down the shop to her
proper counter. She established herself behind a sort of wire screen
and pushed a sheaf of telegraph forms towards Mr. Goddard.

“Take those things away,” he said. “I’m coming inside there to watch
you send off my wires and to wait for the answers.”

Susy Lizzie by way of reply drew Mr. Goddard’s attention to a printed
notice which forbade members of the general public entering the inner
precincts of the office.

“If you go on with any more of that nonsense,” said Mr. Goddard,
“I’ll tell your uncle the way I found you this minute with the
station-master.”

It was one thing to be bullied by Miss Blow, quite another thing to
endure the official insolence of Susy Lizzie. Mr. Goddard felt that he
was man enough to make a stand against that.

“There’d be nothing to tell if you did,” said Susy Lizzie.

“Wouldn’t there? I suppose you’d try and make out he was talking to you
about buying a new hat for his mother, and you were showing him the way
it ought to be trimmed.”

Susy Lizzie grinned. Then she removed the official notice of no
admission, lifted up a slab of her counter, and invited Mr. Goddard
to enter. The first telegram he handed her completely restored her
good-humour. It was a message of a delightfully exciting kind.

“To the Inspector-General of Police, Dublin Castle. Your Members of
Parliament are unfortunately lost. Am making inquiries. Goddard,
District Inspector.”

After this came eight much longer messages. They were addressed to
detective sergeants in Derry, Larne, Belfast, Greenore, Dublin,
Kingstown, Rosslare, and Queenstown. They contained inadequate
descriptions of the appearance of Mr. Dick and Mr. Sanders; and an
earnest request that all steamers leaving for America, Scottish, or
English ports might be watched. While Susy Lizzie was tapping her
way through these messages, Mr. Goddard unrolled an ordnance survey
map, and made a list of all the railway stations within fifty miles
of Clonmore. He then wrote out a series of messages to the police
sergeants of these places, directing them to make inquiries at the
railway stations about all strangers who had left by train that day. He
appended, for the further guidance of the police, his descriptions of
the Members of Parliament, and a note to the effect that one of them
was riding a lady’s bicycle.

Susy Lizzie handed him a reply to his first message.

“From Under Secretary, Dublin Castle. Inspector-General of police in
Belfast quelling riot. Wire forwarded. Lord Lieutenant anxious to know
whether ladies of party safe.”

Mr. Goddard replied at once, “Ladies perfectly safe, but anxious and
tearful.”

Susy Lizzie, by this time in a state of extreme excitement and perfect
good temper, set to work again at the seaport messages. She had got
as far as Greenore when she had to stop to receive another incoming
message.

“From Chief Secretary, Dublin Castle. Please explain first wire.
Unintelligible here.”

This was followed immediately by one from Belfast.

“Inspector-General supposes mistake in transmission of wire. Kindly
repeat.”

Mr. Goddard wrote out two replies.

“To Chief Secretary, Dublin Castle. Members of Parliament completely
lost during night. Deeply regret occurrence. Goddard, District
Inspector.”

“To Inspector-General of Police, Belfast. First message probably
correctly transmitted. Members of Parliament cannot be found. Goddard,
District Inspector.”

Susy Lizzie, working at high speed, got these messages despatched and
went on with those to Dublin, Kingstown, Rosslare, and Queenstown. Then
Mr. Goddard handed her a bundle of forms which contained his appeals
to the police at the railway stations. He felt that he had done all
that could be done to discover the escaped gentlemen. It is impossible,
as Mr. Goddard knew, to get out of Ireland without going either to
Great Britain or America. Derry and Queenstown were the ports of exit
westwards. If, as was far more likely, the fugitives had made a rush
for England or Scotland, he would get news of them at one of the other
places. It was possible, of course, that they were still loitering
about Ireland. In that case he would hear of them from one of his
railway stations. Even the most energetic Member of Parliament would
not be likely to do more than fifty miles on his bicycle over west of
Ireland roads, and Mr. Sanders was afflicted with a weak heart.

“Isn’t there some way of getting from the hotel to the shop,” said Mr.
Goddard, “without going out into the street? I want to speak to your
uncle.”

“There is surely,” said Susy Lizzie. “If you step across to the grocery
counter, the young gentleman that’s there will show you the door.”

The door, as Mr. Goddard found when the young gentleman opened it for
him, led directly to the hotel bar. Jimmy O’Loughlin was serving out
bottles of porter to about a dozen customers. There was a babble of
talk, which ceased abruptly as Mr. Goddard entered.

“Jimmy,” he said, “I want to speak to you for a minute.”

“Affy Ginnetty,” said Jimmy, “come here and attend the bar.”

The young gentleman who had opened the door for Mr. Goddard left the
care of the bacon, flour, and tobacco which strewed his counter, and
took his place behind the bar. Jimmy led the way to the ironmongery
corner of his shop.

“We’ll have this place to ourselves,” he said. “There’s nobody comes
to buy them things”--he indicated an assortment of lamps, pots, and
rat-traps--“unless it would be of a fair day.”

“Jimmy,” said Mr. Goddard, “where are the ladies?”

“There’s two of them,” said Jimmy, “that’s in their beds.”

“In their beds?”

“I suppose it’s in them they are. Anyway, they said they were going to
lie down, and Bridgy brought up a can of hot water apiece for them, and
I didn’t see them since. There was talk,” he added, “of their being up
and dressed again to be down ready at the barrack at four o’clock,
that being the hour at which they were expecting Sergeant Farrelly to
be back.”

“Those,” said Mr. Goddard, “are probably Mrs. Dick and Mrs. Sanders.”

“They might be.”

“And what about the other two?”

“There’s one of them that’s writing letters above in the drawing-room.
She sent Bridgy for twopenny-worth of paper and envelopes, and I gave
her the loan of a bottle of ink and a writing pen. I heard her say
she’d be down along with the other two at the barrack at four o’clock
to see the sergeant.”

“That’s most likely to be Miss Farquharson.”

“I wouldn’t say,” said Jimmy, “whether the sergeant would be back at
four.”

“He will not, nor yet at five.”

“I was thinking as much.”

“Where’s Miss Blow?”

“The doctor’s young lady,” said Jimmy, “is down at the barrack along
with Moriarty.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“She wasn’t as much put out as you’d expect,” said Jimmy, “when she
found she couldn’t go on the bicycle. I was thinking she might be in a
bad way and that maybe she’d be too much for Moriarty, so I sent Bridgy
into the yard to her, not caring to go myself----”

“You were right there,” said Mr. Goddard.

“Bridgy told me after, that she never saw in all her born days anything
to equal the state that Moriarty had the tyre in. ‘You could have run
the wisps of it,’ she said, ‘through the teeth of a fine comb.’”

“Get Bridgy,” said Mr. Goddard. “I’d like to hear the story from
herself.”

“I’m not sure could I get her, for she’s busy with the pig’s food and
would be wanting to clean herself before she’d come. But there’s no
need anyway, for I can tell you the way she quietened the doctor’s
young lady as well as she’d tell it herself, and maybe better, for she
might be backward in speaking out before a gentleman. ‘The sergeant bid
me say,’ says Bridgy, ‘that he’s off this quarter of an hour, and has
took Constable Cole along with him.’ Only for Moriarty being there and
listening to her Bridgy says the young lady would have cursed awful
at hearing that. ‘Wild horses,’ says Bridgy, ‘wouldn’t have held the
sergeant back from going, he was that set on catching the blackguards
that ill-treated the poor doctor.’ Bridgy says the young lady seemed
more pacified at them words. ‘The sergeant,’ says Bridgy, ‘is a
terrible man when his temper is riz, and riz it is this day if ever
it was. I’d be sorry for the man that faces him.’ And so she went on
telling stories about the sergeant and Constable Cole that would make
you think they were the blood-thirstiest villains in Ireland, and that
nothing delighted them only getting a hold of murderers and the like.”

“And did Miss Blow believe all that?”

“I’m not sure did she, but it quietened her. She didn’t say a word to
Moriarty, good nor bad, but she went out into the street and she asked
the first three men she met where was Sergeant Farrelly and Constable
Cole.”

“Well, and what did they tell her?”

“They told her the truth, of course. They told her they’d seen the
sergeant and Cole going off on their bicycles back west in the
direction of Rosivera. I’m thinking that after that she began to be
of opinion that there was, maybe, some truth in what Bridgy had been
saying. Anyway, she went off down to the barrack, and Moriarty after
her, and she’s there yet.”

Susy Lizzie emerged from behind the wire screen of the post-office
counter while Jimmy O’Loughlin was speaking. She held in her hand a
bundle of telegraph forms. Her uncle caught sight of her.

“What is it you’re wanting, Susy Lizzie?” he said. “Why wouldn’t you
stay where you’re paid to stay and attend to the wants of the public?”

“It’s a dozen wires and more,” said Susy Lizzie, “that’s after coming
for Mr. Goddard, and I thought maybe he’d like to get them at once.”

“You thought right,” said Mr. Goddard. “Hand them over.”

The first he looked at was from Derry.

“Two men, answering the description given, but without bicycles, left
this last night at eight P.M., on steamer _Rose_ for Glasgow.
Have wired Chief of Police there.”

“That’ll hardly be them,” said Jimmy O’Loughlin, who was looking over
Mr. Goddard’s shoulder.

“It can’t possibly be them,” said Mr. Goddard. “I defy them to get
from this to Derry between twelve o’clock yesterday and eight in the
evening. I hope to goodness those silly asses won’t go and arrest two
total strangers and dump them down on us here. We have worry enough
without that.”

“I don’t know,” said Jimmy, “if so be the men they got were decent sort
of men, it might be----”

“What’s that you’re saying?” said Mr. Goddard.

He had glanced at five more telegrams which came from the police who
lived in towns where trains stopped. They all denied any knowledge of
the Members of Parliament.

“I was saying,” said Jimmy, “that maybe since the gentlemen that’s
wanted can’t be found, the ones they’d be sending over to us from
Glasgow might be some comfort to the ladies. Susy Lizzie, what are you
doing standing there with a grin on your face that a man could post a
letter through? Aren’t you ugly enough the way God made you without
twisting the mouth that’s on you into worse than it is? Get back with
you and mind the telegraph machine. I hear it ticking away there as if
the devil was in it. Be off with you now, and don’t let me be obliged
to speak to you twice. I was saying, Mr. Goddard----”

“I heard what you were saying,” said Mr. Goddard, “and I never heard
greater nonsense in my life.”

He was scattering more pink papers on the floor as he spoke. Every
railway station about which he inquired had been drawn blank.

“Do you suppose,” he went on, “that a lady like Mrs. Dick, who has been
crying the whole day because she’s lost her husband, would take up
straight off with any strange man the police happened to send her over
from Glasgow? Have some sense, Jimmy.”

“It’s them ones that cries the most,” said Jimmy, “that is the quickest
to get married again if so be there’s anybody willing to take them.”

“I don’t deny that,” said Mr. Goddard; “but, hang it all! you must give
her time to make sure that the first one’s really dead. I don’t believe
he is myself. Damn it all! look at this.”

He held out a telegram, the last of his batch, to Jimmy O’Loughlin.

“From Inspector-General of Police. Matter of disappearance of Members
of Parliament serious. Keep news out of papers if possible. Am leaving
Belfast to-night. Shall reach Clonmore to-morrow noon. Meet train and
report.”

“I don’t know,” said Jimmy, “will he be expecting to stay the night at
the hotel, for if he is there’s no place for him to sleep. There’s the
doctor’s young lady has the big front room, and yourself and the other
three ladies has all the rest of the bedrooms there is in it, and the
like of a high-up man such as the Inspector-General will be looking for
something better than a sofa in the drawing-room. I don’t know either
is Bridgy fit to cook the sort of dinner he’d be accustomed to.”

“I don’t care a straw where he sleeps. What I’m thinking about is the
abominable fuss there’ll be when he arrives. One comfort is he won’t be
able to find these wretched Members of Parliament any more than I can
myself.”

“He might, then,” said Jimmy hopefully.

“He will not; but I tell you what he’ll do. He’ll find out about the
doctor being gone and Patsy Devlin. Then he’ll come to the conclusion
that there’s some sort of a conspiracy on foot in the country. He’ll
draft in a lot of extra police, and he’ll have the life worried out of
me. Look here, Jimmy, I can’t stand much more of this sort of thing
to-day. You’ll have to keep those women off me somehow. I’ll count on
you to do it. I shall go and shut myself up in the telegraph office
along with Susy Lizzie, and if you let one of them in on me I’ll never
forgive you. Let them fight it out with Sergeant Farrelly when he gets
back. Let Cole try them with another stratagem if he likes. All I ask
is to have them kept off me.”

“I’ll do the best I can,” said Jimmy; “and if you send Susy Lizzie into
the hotel any time, Bridgy’ll give her a cup of tea for you. You’ll be
wanting it.”



CHAPTER XXI


At four o’clock Miss Farquharson, Mrs. Dick and Mrs. Sanders went down
to the police barrack. They found Miss Blow seated by herself in the
men’s day room. Constable Moriarty was digging potatoes in the garden
at the back of the house. He had been questioned and cross-questioned
by Miss Blow for more than an hour after he had completed the
destruction of the bicycle tyre. He felt jaded and nervous. He stood on
the brink of a frightful exposure. A trifling accident, an incautious
word, might at any moment betray the part he had played in Constable
Cole’s stratagem. Some men under the circumstances would have steadied
themselves with whisky, but Moriarty was a strict teetotaller. Others
would have smoked pipe after pipe of strong tobacco. Moriarty, much
wiser, went out and dug potatoes. There is nothing more soothing
to racked nerves than digging in the ground, and there is a mild
excitement about driving a spade into potato ridges which distracts the
mind from painful thoughts and terrifying anticipations. The turning up
of the roots of any particular plant may display an amazing wealth of
tubers, may expose to the gaze of the delighted gardener some potato of
huge size or very unusual shape. You cannot tell beforehand what will
be unearthed. Expectations and hope run high. There is also present a
certain fear. It is always possible, unless you are very skilful at the
work, that a spade may slice a potato, leaving you face to face with
two reproachful, earth-soiled, flat surfaces, useless for the pot, a
manifest disgrace to your digging. Moriarty was not a highly skilled or
very experienced potato digger. He enjoyed to the full the pleasures of
anticipation. He suffered from the bitterness which follows mistakes.
He almost forgot Miss Blow and the torment of her questioning.

Then, at a quarter past four, Miss Blow’s voice brought him back from
his security. She called him by name from the back door of the barrack.
Moriarty scraped the clay off the sides of his boots, shuffled on his
coat, and gave his hands a rub on the front part of the legs of his
trousers. Then he joined Miss Blow and the other ladies in the day room.

“Why isn’t Sergeant Farrelly back?” asked Miss Blow.

“I don’t know, miss.”

“It’s after four,” said Miss Blow.

“Well, now,” said Moriarty, “that’s a queer thing, so it is.”

“He started, I am told, at about half-past twelve.”

“It might have been that,” said Moriarty, “or it might have been more.
I didn’t take notice on account of being engaged in mending your tyre
at the time.”

“It’s eight miles to Rosivera. Allow three-quarters of an hour to get
there----”

“It could be,” said Moriarty, “that he was punctured on the way. It’s a
bad road.”

“Allowing for all possible accidents, even supposing he walked the
whole way there and back, they should be here by this time.”

“They should. You’re right, there, miss. They should.”

“Will you,” said Miss Blow, “kindly go and fetch Mr. Goddard, your
officer? He ought to know that his men have not returned.”

“I don’t know will I be able to find him.”

“Go and try.”

“I will,” said Moriarty. “I’ll go and ask Jimmy O’Loughlin. If anybody
knows where the officer is, it’ll be Jimmy O’Loughlin.”

Jimmy O’Loughlin told Moriarty to go back to the ladies and keep them
amused for a while by showing them over the barrack. Moriarty refused
to do this. He said that the situation was urgent and critical, and
that he would not take the responsibility of dealing with Miss Blow
without help. Jimmy O’Loughlin reluctantly went down to the barrack.
Miss Blow attacked him at once.

“Where is Mr. Goddard?” she said.

“He’s beyond,” said Jimmy, “in the post-office, and he left word that
he wasn’t to be disturbed on account of his being terrible busy.”

“He ought to be told that his men have not returned from Rosivera.”

“I’d be in dread to go near him. It’s telegrams he’s sending, telegrams
to the Lord Lieutenant and more of them high-up gentlemen, and that’s
the kind of work that would be preying upon a man.”

“Sergeant Farrelly left this at a quarter past twelve,” said Miss Blow;
“and he’s not back yet.”

“It’s a long road,” said Jimmy, “longer maybe than you’d think.”

“It’s eight miles.”

“And eight back along with that.”

“That only makes sixteen,” said Miss Farquharson, who shared her
nephew’s fondness for intricate calculations.

“So they ought to be here by this time,” said Miss Blow.

“It could be,” said Jimmy, “that they might be a long time looking
for the gentleman they’re after before they’d find him. A fellow like
that would be as cunning as an old fox, hiding himself when he saw the
police after him.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Dick, “I do hope nothing has happened to them. It would
be too terrible.”

“The sergeant,” said Jimmy, “is a heavy man. He wouldn’t be as quick as
another at doing a run on a bicycle.”

“Still,” said Miss Blow, “he’s had four hours and it’s only sixteen
miles.”

“He’ll have to walk back,” said Jimmy, “and if so be the prisoner
wasn’t willing to come with him it might be a long time before he got
him along the road, for he wouldn’t like to be beating him. He has a
kind heart, the sergeant; it’s hardly ever you’d see him as much as
laying a stick across a child.”

Miss Blow seemed more or less satisfied. The idea of Mr. Red driven by
threats of violent batoning along a dusty road comforted her. Jimmy
O’Loughlin made his escape from the barrack.

He found Mr. Goddard scribbling a fresh telegram in the post-office.

“Look at that,” he said, handing a form to Jimmy.

“From Chief Secretary, Dublin Castle. Why have you not reported
recovery of Members of Parliament?”

“That’s not what I’d call a civil message,” said Jimmy. “What did you
say to him?”

“Susy Lizzie,” said Mr. Goddard, “give your uncle the answer I sent to
the last telegram but two.”

Susy Lizzie fumbled among a pile of papers and finally handed one over
to Jimmy.

“To Chief Secretary, Dublin Castle. Impossible to report recovery of
Members of Parliament with any truth because still at large. Goddard,
District Inspector.”

“Be damn,” said Jimmy, “but you had him there, as neat as ever I seen.”

“He’s not satisfied, though. Look at this.”

He handed another form to Jimmy.

“From Chief Secretary, Dublin Castle. Lord Lieutenant requests
explanation of disappearance of Members of Parliament.”

“Here’s the answer to that,” said Mr. Goddard. “Read it out to your
uncle, Susy Lizzie, before you send it off.”

Susy Lizzie grinned broadly.

“Go on,” said Jimmy, “and do what the gentleman bids you. You’ve no
right to be laughing at the business of the Government.”

“Theory current locally,” read Susy Lizzie, “that Members of Parliament
have deserted their wives and aunt.”

“That’ll give him his ’nough of telegraphing for this day anyhow,” said
Jimmy. “I’d like to see the way he’ll be rampaging up and down the
stairs of the Castle when he gets that. It’ll show them fellows that
you think mighty little of them anyway, Mr. Goddard.”

“How are the ladies getting on?”

“I’ve quietened them for a bit. They were annoyed on account of
Sergeant Farrelly not coming back; but I told them it would take him
a long time to be dragging Mr. Red along the road by the hair of his
head, and I didn’t think he’d come without. They’ll be all right for
another hour, anyway. Will I be going into the hotel and telling Bridgy
to fetch you over a cup of tea? It’s after five o’clock.”

It was nearly six o’clock before Bridgy came to the shop with a tray
in her hands. She was followed by Affy, the young gentleman from the
grocery department, who carried a loaf of bread and a pot of jam. Mr.
Goddard and Susy Lizzie began a comfortable meal together. They were
interrupted twice by telegrams from Dublin, but they did not allow
these to trouble them much. A very much more serious interruption was
caused by a breathless whisper from Affy to the effect that four ladies
were entering the shop. Mr. Goddard, carrying his teacup with him,
concealed himself behind a screen of muffed glass, originally erected
by the post-office authorities in order that letters might be sorted
out of sight of the public.

“Susy Lizzie,” he whispered, “run like a good girl and get your uncle.
Tell him that the ladies are here, and that he’ll have to come at once
and pacify them.”

Susy Lizzie ran. She was enjoying her afternoon immensely. The monotony
of her life was seldom broken in any way half so agreeable.

“If the thing is to be done, I’ll do it,” said Jimmy, when he received
the message.

He left his bar and went into the shop. He faced Miss Farquharson, who
was asking Affy where Mr. Goddard was likely to be found.

“I was thinking, my lady,” said Jimmy, “that maybe you’d be wanting
a bit of supper. What would you say now to a chop, or a couple of
rashers and some eggs? I could have them got for you in a minute.”

“I want Mr. Goddard, the police officer,” said Miss Blow, who stood
beside the post-office counter.

“Wouldn’t it be better for you now,” said Jimmy, turning to her, “to
be eating your supper quietly instead of rampaging about the town
frightening the wits out of a poor man that’s doing his best for you?
Come now, sure I’m old enough to be your father, and I know what’s good
for you. It’s moidered you are with the trouble that’s on you, and
there isn’t one in the place but is sorry for you and for all the rest
of the ladies this night. But what’s the good of making yourselves sick
over it, and tormenting the officer? If they’re gone, they’re gone, and
all the talking in the world won’t bring them back to you.”

“Man----” said Miss Blow.

“Look at poor Susan Devlin,” said Jimmy, “she’s lost a husband as well
as the rest of you, and barring that she might be crying an odd time
when she’d be thinking of him, she’s as quiet as a lamb. Why can’t you
behave yourselves like her? I’m not setting up to teach ladies like
yourselves what ought to be and what ought not, but I’d say myself that
the men that would run away from yez, from the like of yez”--he spoke
with a smile that was meant to flatter--“isn’t worth looking after.”

“Do you dare to suggest----” said Miss Farquharson.

“It’s not the first time that suggestion has been made,” said Miss
Blow. “It’s part of the scandalous conspiracy in which every man, woman
and child in this place is involved.”

“If you won’t take your supper when it’s offered you,” said Jimmy,
“maybe you’ll sit inside in the hotel. You’re interrupting the business
of the shop standing where you are, let alone preventing the public
from buying the stamps they have a right to buy to put on their
letters.”

The appeal produced its effect on Miss Blow. She had the blood of a
business man in her veins. She understood that her father would have
resented any interference with the sale of his twopenny Beauties, and
would not have admitted either grief or anger as legitimate reasons
for damming the flow of trade. Also she and her companions belonged
to a law-abiding race. They had a natural respect for any department
of the State. They felt it wrong to stop the sale of postage stamps.
They trooped into the hotel and sat down in the commercial room. Once
there Miss Farquharson’s strong common sense asserted itself. She
suggested that it might be wise after all to order bacon and eggs,
quoting the advice given by St. Paul to the sailors who were threatened
with shipwreck. Mrs. Dick and Mrs. Sanders declared with tears that
it was impossible for them to eat in their heart-broken condition.
This confirmed Miss Farquharson in her resolve to have a regular meal.
She gave the necessary order to Jimmy O’Loughlin. Miss Blow agreed
to eat on condition that the meal was served in the commercial room,
the windows of which looked out on the street. She knew that Sergeant
Farrelly, Constable Cole, and the prisoner must pass the hotel on their
way to the barrack.



CHAPTER XXII


At eight o’clock Mr. Goddard, who had enjoyed some fried bacon and a
bottle of porter in the telegraph office, began to feel surprise at
the prolonged absence of Sergeant Farrelly. It was all very well to go
slowly to Rosivera and to return without undue hurry, but it was hard
to imagine how eight hours could possibly be occupied in travelling
sixteen miles. He sent Susy Lizzie, who remained in attendance on him,
to call her uncle.

“I’m doing the best I can,” said Jimmy, “to keep them quiet; but
they’ll be out after you in spite of me soon. I left herself and Bridgy
talking to them; but what use are they against the four? And the
doctor’s young lady is the worst of them.”

“It’s not the ladies I’m bothered about now,” said Mr. Goddard. “Why
the devil isn’t Sergeant Farrelly back? What’s keeping him?”

“Faith, I don’t know, unless maybe he’d be in dread!”

“Nonsense. I told him not to hurry, but I didn’t tell him to stay out
all night.”

“It’s queer, so it is,” said Jimmy. “What would you think now of
sending Constable Moriarty out a bit along the road to look and see if
there’s e’er a sign of them coming?”

“I’ll go myself,” said Mr. Goddard.

“I wouldn’t say,” said Jimmy, “but what it might be just as well if you
did. The ladies is sure to be here in a couple of minutes now. I can’t
keep them.”

Mr. Goddard walked a mile along the road towards Rosivera, and then
sat down on a ditch. There was no sign of Sergeant Farrelly. At nine
o’clock he got up, and walked another mile and sat down again. Still
there was no sign of the missing policemen. He walked a third mile and
once more waited. He was puzzled and began to be uneasy. He turned and
walked back towards Clonmore. Half a mile outside the town he climbed
the demesne wall and crossed an angle of the deer park to the Castle.
It was a quarter past ten when he reached the door.

He found Lord Manton in the library with a book in his hand and a glass
of whisky and soda water on the arm of his chair. There was a pile of
cigarette ends on the tray which stood within reach.

“Well, Goddard,” he said, “I suppose you’ve tucked all your ladies up
in bed and come up here for a quiet smoke. You deserve it.”

“No,” said Mr. Goddard; “I’ve come to consult you. I don’t
understand----”

“Surely nobody else has bolted?”

“Sergeant Farrelly and the constable have not returned from Rosivera.”

“Dear me! I always heard that these things were infectious, like
measles. One suicide, half a dozen suicides. We appear to be in for
an epidemic of bolting. But I’d never have suspected the sergeant. He
seemed such a solid sort of man, not the least hysterical; but you can
never tell. I hope you won’t vanish to-morrow, Goddard. If you feel it
coming on you, you’d better put yourself under arrest at once. Was the
sergeant a married man?”

“No, he wasn’t.”

“Then there’ll be no widow to make lamentation in his case. That’s a
good job for you, Goddard. I don’t see how you could have got on with
another woman running round after you. What about the constable?”

“He’s not married either. He’s not long enough in the service.”

“Poor fellow!” said Lord Manton. “I suppose now that this will ruin his
prospects, even if he comes back.”

“Lord Manton,” said Mr. Goddard, “what do you know about that tenant of
yours at Rosivera?”

“Surely you’re not coming round to Miss Blow’s murder theory, are you?”

“I don’t know. It’s a very queer business. Is Red--that’s the man’s
name, isn’t it--respectable?”

“I don’t know. I never saw the man in my life. I know nothing about him
except that he paid his rent and came here in a motor-car. That looks
as if he had money, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t understand it,” said Mr. Goddard. “The sergeant and Cole
certainly went to Rosivera to-day. I don’t see what was to stop them
getting there. They weren’t likely to lose their way. They certainly
haven’t come back.”

“What does Jimmy O’Loughlin say? I suppose you’ve consulted him.”

“Jimmy thinks,” said Mr. Goddard, “that the sergeant’s afraid to come
back on account of Miss Blow. But that’s all rot, of course.”

“I’m not at all sure that Jimmy’s not right. He’s a very shrewd man,
Jimmy O’Loughlin. I shouldn’t wonder a bit----”

“But what the deuce am I to do?”

“I’ll tell you what it is,” said Lord Manton. “We’ll make a descent
in force on Rosivera to-morrow. You shall collect all the police you
possibly can, fifty of them, if there are fifty available. We’ll
take all the ladies interested in the matter in my waggonette. Jimmy
O’Loughlin and I will accompany the army in the capacity of civil
magistrates, each of us armed with a Riot Act and a writ of Habeas
Corpus. We’ll make that fellow Red sit up if he’s been at any games.”

“I really think we’ll have to. It seems very absurd, but what else are
we to do? I’ve been harried with telegrams from everybody in Dublin
Castle all day. The Inspector-General is coming down here to-morrow,
though I don’t see what on earth he thinks he’ll be able to do.”

“We’ll forestall him,” said Lord Manton. “He can’t possibly get here
before noon. We’ll start at eleven A.M. sharp. We’ll have the mystery,
whatever it is, probed to its inmost recesses before he gets at it. The
whole credit will be yours, Goddard.”

“I’ll make any one that likes a present of the credit.”

“In the meanwhile,” said Lord Manton, “you’d better sleep here. I
expect Jimmy O’Loughlin’s hotel is pretty well full up.”

“Thanks,” said Mr. Goddard. “The fact is, I don’t particularly care
about going back to the village to-night.”

“Will they be waiting up for you?”

“They will.”

“Miss Blow,” said Lord Manton, “is a wonderful woman.”

“She’s not bad looking,” said Mr. Goddard magnanimously, “but she’s
rather----”

“I know what you’re going to say--vehement, wasn’t that it? A good deal
of life force about her? I quite agree with you. Now, what do you
think? Supposing it turns out that the man Red has really been up to
any kind of tricks; supposing he’s engaged in a business of kidnapping
dispensary doctors, blacksmiths, Members of Parliament and policemen,
for the purpose of shipping them off as slaves to the Sultan of
Zanzibar. I don’t say for certain that that’s exactly what he’s doing.
I don’t know yet. But if he’s at anything of the sort it would serve
him jolly well right if we made him marry Miss Blow.”

“He wouldn’t do it.”

“He might. He seems to be a man of adventurous disposition. If he
doesn’t like her, we could offer him Miss Farquharson.”

“I should think he’d refuse them both. He’d see Miss Farquharson, and
he’d be absolutely certain to hear Miss Blow.”

“I think we could put pressure on him,” said Lord Manton. “In fact, it
would be a choice for him between marrying and a criminal prosecution.
A man can’t kidnap people in this wholesale sort of way without
suffering for it. He’ll understand that when we put it to him. But
you’ve had an exhausting day, Goddard, and I dare say you’d like to
toddle up to bed. Wilkins will leave you whatever you want. We’ll have
a great time to-morrow, raiding Rosivera.”



CHAPTER XXIII


Miss Blow was very angry when she discovered that Mr. Goddard was not
in the telegraph office. Nothing Jimmy O’Loughlin said soothed her in
the least. He pointed out that the officer’s absence was caused by his
excessive zeal for the cause they all had at heart; that he had in
fact gone in person to investigate the mystery of Rosivera. Miss Blow
refused to believe him, and expressed her contempt for habitual liars
in plain language.

“If you don’t believe me, miss, ask Constable Moriarty, and he’ll tell
you the same.”

“I shouldn’t believe him either,” said Miss Blow; “and in any case
Constable Moriarty is a fool.”

“He was standing by,” said Jimmy, pursuing the subject without
regarding the interruption, “the same as it might be yourself, and he
heard every word that passed between us. ‘Mr. Goddard,’ I says, ‘them
ladies is in a terrible state, and getting worse. It’s hardly ever
they were able to take the cup of tea I had wetted for them.’ ‘I know
it, Jimmy,’ says he; ‘I know it well; and if cutting off my right hand
would be any ease to them I’d do it this minute.’ ‘You would,’ I says,
for I knew well the way it was going through him; ‘but what good would
that be? Wouldn’t it be better now if you was----’ ‘If I was to what?’
says he, catching me up like. ‘If you was to send Moriarty for a bit of
a stroll along the road,’ I says, ‘to see could he hear any news of
the sergeant.’ ‘I’ll not do it,’ says he, looking terrible determined.
‘I’ll not do the like. What’s Constable Moriarty but a boy, Jimmy? A
boy with maybe a mother breaking her heart after him somewhere. If
there’s murder going,’ says he, ‘it’s not Constable Moriarty it’ll
light on, but myself.’ ‘Do you mean that?’ says I. ‘I do,’ he says; ‘I
mean it; I’ll go myself. What murder’s done to-night will be done on
me, for I’ll not take it on my conscience to be the cause of Moriarty’s
death.’ ‘Mr. Goddard,’ says I, ‘you’re a fine man. I’ll give it in
to you that you’re as brave as any one ever I met; but you’ll be
taking your sword with you, promise me that now.’ ‘I will, Jimmy,’
says he; ‘I’ll take my sword, and I’m thankful to you for making the
suggestion.’ And with that, miss, he was up and off out of the door,
and that was the last I seen of him.”

“If you hadn’t been telling me lies ever since I’ve been in Clonmore,”
said Miss Blow, “there’d be some chance of my believing you now.”

“There’s a man going past the door of the hotel this minute,” said
Jimmy, “with an ass load of turf that he’s after fetching in off the
bog. Will you go out now and ask him did he meet Mr. Goddard on the
road? Maybe you’ll believe him when he tells you.”

Miss Blow accepted the challenge. She waylaid the man with the donkey,
who proved to be very deaf. She raised her voice and shouted at him. He
replied in a low tone. She shouted again, and the man made what seemed
a long answer. Miss Blow returned to Jimmy O’Loughlin.

“You’ve told me the truth for once,” she said ungraciously. “That man
met the officer a mile out of town on the road to Rosivera.”

Jimmy was generous. He did not attempt to humiliate Miss Blow. He
pursued his policy of trying to soothe her. An hour passed. Two hours
passed. Even Miss Blow’s anger began to give way to anxiety. What if
Mr. Goddard was himself a victim to the mysterious gang which had
already made away with seven men? He might have gone the whole way to
Rosivera. He might have fallen into some craftily arranged ambush on
the road. Fear laid hold on her heart. Jimmy O’Loughlin, who was a
little puzzled but not particularly anxious, seized his opportunity.

“It’ll be better for you,” he said, “to go to your bed, you and the
rest of the ladies, where you’ll be safe till the morning. You’ll
hardly be expecting any other man to be going out into the darkness of
the night, risking his life maybe, to satisfy you. Not but what there’s
many a one would do it. I’d do it myself if I saw any good would come
out of it.”

Miss Blow and Miss Farquharson consulted together anxiously. This
fresh disaster had gone a long way towards cowing them. They were not
prepared to insist on the sacrifice of more human life. Mrs. Dick wept
noisily and unrebuked. Mrs. Sanders became very white and her hands
trembled.

“You’ll be safe in your beds anyway,” said Jimmy. “You can turn the
key in the door of every room in this house barring the one I sleep in
myself, for the lock of it is gone wrong on me, and since poor Patsy
Devlin went from us there isn’t a man about the place fit to settle it.”

“Let us go,” said Mrs. Dick, sobbing. “I want to be somewhere at peace.
I don’t care---- Oh, poor Richard!”

“You’re right, ma’am,” said Jimmy; “it’ll be better for you. I have a
dog in the yard that’ll bark fit to wake the dead if e’er a one comes
near the house during the night; and I’ll leave word with Bridgy that
she’s to waken you in good time if so be anything was to happen; but
with the help of God there’ll be no need for that.”

“Come,” said Miss Blow at last; “we can do no more to-night. Let us
get some sleep, if any of us are able to sleep.”



CHAPTER XXIV


It was three o’clock in the afternoon of the day which followed their
capture, and the two Members of Parliament showed no signs of becoming
reconciled to their situation. Mr. Sanders grumbled and occasionally
swore. Mr. Dick passed from bursts of violent rage to fits of
lamentation over the desolate condition of Mrs. Dick. Dr. O’Grady and
Patsy Devlin bore with them patiently for a long time. But there are
limits to human endurance. After a consultation with Patsy, the doctor
undertook to speak seriously to the unreasonably afflicted men. The
bearded anarchist who usually attended to the wants of the prisoners,
carried off the dinner things. Dr. O’Grady pulled Mr. Dick’s bed out to
the middle of the floor.

“Now,” he said, “sit down on that, the two of you in a row, till I try
if I can’t talk sense into you.”

“Why,” said Mr. Sanders sulkily, “why should we sit there and be talked
to by you?”

“There are two reasons why you should,” said Dr. O’Grady. “The first is
because I want to talk to you, and I can do that much more conveniently
if you’re seated in a row in front of me than if you’re scattered about
all over the room. Does that satisfy you, or must I give you the second
reason?”

“I won’t be talked to by you,” said Mr. Dick. “You’re in league with
the infernal scoundrels who have locked us up here.”

“My good man----” said Mr. Sanders.

This pacific form of address produced no more effect on Dr. O’Grady
than Mr. Dick’s blunt denunciation did. Mr. Sanders was given no time
to finish his remark.

“The second reason why you should is because it will be the worse for
you if you don’t.”

“Do you mean to threaten us with violence?” said Mr. Dick.

“Patsy,” said Dr. O’Grady, “take off your coat, roll up your sleeve
and show your arm. I may mention, gentlemen, that Patsy Devlin was a
blacksmith by trade before he took to being a captive. He’s used to
hammering.”

Mr. Dick and Mr. Sanders watched Patsy Devlin bare his arm, but they
made no move towards the bed.

“Patsy,” said Dr. O’Grady, “roll up your other sleeve. If you want to
fight, gentlemen, I’d recommend you to take off your coats.”

“I can’t fight,” said Mr. Sanders, “on account of my heart. It’s weak,
and the doctor expressly forbade any form of excitement or violent
exercise. If it wasn’t for that----”

He sat down on a corner of the bed.

“I haven’t fought for years,” said Mr. Dick with spirit; “but I’m not
going to be bullied by a damned Irish doctor. Come on.”

The speech was worthy of a man who had once at least felt the blood of
the ancient Bersekers coursing through his veins. It was followed by
prompt action. He took off his coat. Patsy Devlin spat on his hands and
then rubbed them together.

“Mr. Dick,” said Dr. O’Grady, “I don’t want to have you smashed up,
partly because from what you’ve told us about your wife I expect she’d
be sorry, and partly because it’d be a nuisance to me to have to fit
you together again. If you don’t sit down on that bed, I’ll ring the
bell for the Emperor and get him to take away your clothes. You didn’t
like going about in nothing but your shirt yesterday evening. Just
recollect that, and be careful.”

Mr. Dick thought better of his resolution. It may have been the
business-like way in which Patsy spat on his hands which daunted him,
or it may have been Dr. O’Grady’s second and very horrible threat. He
sat down sulkily beside Mr. Sanders.

“Now,” said Dr. O’Grady, “I’m going to speak plainly to you for your
own good. You’ve behaved uncommonly badly since you came here. You’ve
sulked and you’ve whimpered, and you’ve raved in such a way as to make
Patsy Devlin and me quite uncomfortable. We made every excuse for you
yesterday afternoon. We recognized that Mr. Dick couldn’t be expected
to be cheerful when he hadn’t got any trousers. We knew that what had
happened would upset Mr. Sanders’ heart and bring on palpitations. We
did our best to make things easy for you. When the assistant anarchists
brought up your beds, we made them for you, and allowed you to get into
them, although it was barely five o’clock, and the habit of going to
bed at that hour is most unsociable. Patsy brought your tea over to you
later on before he drank a drop himself, to save you the trouble of
getting out of bed. That was pure kindness of heart on Patsy’s part,
and you didn’t so much as say ‘thank you.’”

“They did not,” said Patsy, who stood behind the bed with sleeves
still rolled up; “and it will be long enough before I do the like
again.”

“After tea,” said Dr. O’Grady, “I sent for the Emperor and persuaded
him to let Mr. Dick have his clothes back. I needn’t have done that. It
didn’t matter to me if he had to go about stark naked for the rest of
his natural life. Did you show any gratitude this morning? Not a bit.
You sulked and whimpered again in the most unbearable manner. We put up
with it. We tried to cheer you. There was an egg short at breakfast.
Who did without? Patsy again; although he deserved an egg a great deal
more than either of you. When breakfast was over, I suggested that we
should all join in the game of flipping pennies across the table. I
didn’t do that because I wanted to play. As a matter of fact, I don’t
usually play in the morning; I read. Patsy will bear me out in that. I
was prepared to sacrifice my own time and inclination to amuse you. How
did you receive the proposal? You sulked again.”

“I was brought up strictly,” said Mr. Sanders; “I belong to the Free
Kirk, and my conscience will not allow me to gamble.”

“That,” said Dr. O’Grady, “is a paltry excuse, which you ought to be
ashamed to make. No man could be brought up to think it wrong to flip
pennies. Besides, what is it that’s wrong about gambling? It’s the
excitement created by the element of risk associated with all gambling.
Now, in this case, as you know perfectly well, there would have been
no excitement, because there was no element of risk. The thing was a
dead certainty. Patsy would have given you ten points in every game and
beaten the head off you. If you had to make an excuse, why didn’t you
trot out your weak heart again? That would have been more reasonable.
When you wouldn’t play that, I proposed another game, called Moggy, at
which you wouldn’t have had a chance of winning either. You refused it
too. Then I said that if you liked we’d have a debate on Home Rule or
Tariff Reform. I said that you two could choose your own side and that
Patsy and I would take the other, whatever it was. I thought that would
interest you. It would have bored both Patsy and me frightfully; but we
were prepared to put up with that for your sakes.”

“How could you expect us to take an interest in Tariff Reform,” said
Mr. Dick, “when our minds were full of----”

“Patsy,” said Dr. O’Grady, “if that man mentions his wife again, hit
him with the flat of your hand on the side of the head. Now go on, Mr.
Dick.”

“When--when we were imprisoned,” said Mr. Dick.

“That ought not to have stopped you,” said Dr. O’Grady. “The great
problems of your country’s welfare ought to come before considerations
of your personal convenience. Think of the ancient Romans. Remember
Horatius, and Coriolanus, and the fellow that jumped into the hole in
the Forum. That’s the way you ought to be behaving instead of grumbling
and growling. Now I’m going to give you another chance. If you choose
to behave like reasonable human beings, well and good. Patsy and I will
do everything in our power to make your stay here pleasant for you. If
you won’t, you shan’t have a bite or sup until you do. I’ll give you
three minutes by my watch to make up your minds. Will you or will you
not be sociable and pleasant? Will you join us in a game of Hunt the
Slipper? Come over to the window, Patsy, and leave them to make up
their minds together.”

Patsy and Dr. O’Grady stood looking out at the yard; the doctor held
his watch in his hand; there was dead silence in the room.

“One minute gone,” said Dr. O’Grady.

There was a sound of whispering which ceased abruptly.

“Two minutes gone.”

There was more whispering. Then Mr. Sanders spoke.

“Don’t choose such a silly game,” he said. “We can’t play Hunt the
Slipper. We really can’t. Dick says he’d rather starve.”

“I’m not particular about what game you choose,” said Dr. O’Grady,
“so long as it’s a possible game. There’s no use your saying golf or
cricket or lawn tennis, because we’ve no way of playing them here. You
can have Drop the Handkerchief, if you like, or Oranges and Lemons.”

This time there was a good deal of whispering, a kind of debate
conducted with great earnestness.

“I’ll play Hop Scotch, if you like,” said Mr. Sanders; “but Dick won’t.”

“Never mind about Mr. Dick,” said the doctor. “He’ll join in when he
sees how pleasant it is. You can play Hop Scotch, I suppose, Patsy?”

“I cannot,” said Patsy. “I never heard tell of it.”

“I can’t either,” said the doctor. “But it’ll be all right: Mr. Sanders
will teach us.”

“I shall want a piece of chalk,” said Mr. Sanders.

“There’s no chalk here,” said Dr. O’Grady. “Will nothing else do you?
What’s the chalk for?”

“I have to mark out a figure on the boards,” said Mr. Sanders.

“I’ve a small bottle of Condy’s Fluid in my bag,” said the doctor,
“that I carry about with me for disinfecting my hands. You could manage
with it, I dare say.”

“You can stain the floor with Condy’s Fluid,” said Mr. Dick, who was
really a sociable man, and was beginning to be interested in the
proceedings. “When we were first married and went into our new house,
my wife----”

“Now, don’t start talking about your wife,” said Dr. O’Grady, “just as
you’re beginning to cheer up. You’ll upset yourself again.”

Mr. Sanders went down on his hands and knees. He made a little pool of
Condy’s Fluid on the floor and drew lines from it with his forefinger.
The rest of the party watched with great interest. Suddenly he stopped
and knelt bolt upright.

“What’s that noise?” he said.

“I didn’t hear any noise,” said Dr. O’Grady. “There wasn’t any noise.
Go on Hop Scotching.”

“There was a noise. I heard it. A noise like a fall. I have very sharp
hearing.”

“That always goes with a weak heart,” said Dr. O’Grady. “But----”

He stopped abruptly. This time there was an unmistakable noise, a shout
uttered somewhere in the lower part of the house, which reached even
the remote room where the captives were. They drew together and waited,
breathless. Mr. Sanders grew very white.

“They’re fighting downstairs,” he said.

“Perhaps the police have come,” said Mr. Dick. “Perhaps we shall be
rescued. I knew that my wife would do everything to find me. I knew she
would find me.”

“You didn’t seem to think so yesterday,” said Dr. O’Grady. “And I
wouldn’t make too sure now, if I were you. If they are fighting
downstairs, and I can’t hear plainly enough to be certain----”

“I can,” said Mr. Sanders.

“I expect,” said Dr. O’Grady, “that the Emperor will get the best of
it. He’ll probably be in on us here in a minute or two as proud as
Punch at having bagged another chance traveller. If the Emperor has a
fault at all, it’s his extraordinary fondness for kidnapping people. I
can’t think why he does it.”

“They’re coming upstairs,” said Mr. Sanders. “I hear them distinctly.”

“They are,” said Dr. O’Grady; “a whole lot of people. I wonder who he
has got this time.”

The door of the room was unlocked. There was a short scuffle outside,
and then Sergeant Farrelly and Constable Cole were thrust in. They both
looked as if they had been roughly handled. The sergeant’s tunic was
torn, his right eye was beginning to swell, and there was blood on his
lower lip. Mr. Red, looking very grim and determined, stalked into the
room behind them.

“Emperor,” said Dr. O’Grady, “this is too much. I complained to you
yesterday about the habit you have got into of thrusting strange people
in on top of me and Patsy. I put up with the last two, but this is more
than I am going to stand.”

“They remain here,” said Mr. Red, “as captives.”

“Not at all,” said Dr. O’Grady. “Think it over, Emperor, and
you’ll come to see that you can’t possibly leave them here. You
are an anarchist, an anti-military anarchist. You’ve often told
me so yourself. Now, an anarchist, as I understand his position,
is absolutely pledged to every kind of social reform. Whatever
anybody else may do, an anarchist can’t consistently go in for the
over-crowding of tenement houses, or tolerate insanitary prisons. You
see that, don’t you? If ever it got out that you’d shut up six men in
one room and kept them there, your reputation would be gone. There
wouldn’t be a decent anarchist anywhere in the world who’d recognize
you as belonging to his party or so much as speak to you. You’d be a
sort of Suraja Dowlah with a horrible Black Hole of Calcutta story
cropping up against you at every turn. You simply must give these two
men---- Oh, you’re going, are you? Very well. But think over what I’ve
said. You’ll realize that I’m right.”

Mr. Red shut the door and locked it. Sergeant Farrelly turned fiercely
on Constable Cole.

“You born fool,” he said, “why didn’t you strike him when I had him
down?”

“I’d have----”

“I suppose it was planning a stratagem you were,” said the sergeant,
“instead of striking when you got the chance.”

“I’d have broke his head,” said Constable Cole, “if so be I’d struck
him and me in the rage I was in at the time. How would I know but that
it might be murder?”

“Serve you right if he broke yours,” said the sergeant.

“Come now,” said Dr. O’Grady, “there’s no use making a fuss. You put up
a middling good fight to judge by the look of you, and you ought to be
content. None of the rest of us did as much.”

“Is that yourself, doctor?” said the sergeant.

“It is.”

“And, by the holy,” said Constable Cole, “he has Patsy Devlin along
with him!”

“And us thinking that the two of yez was off to America,” said the
sergeant.

“I heard that you thought I’d gone,” said Dr. O’Grady; “but what made
you suspect poor Patsy?”

“Hadn’t he the funds collected for the sports?” said the sergeant.

“Be damn!” said Patsy, “but that wasn’t the cause of my going off, and
well you know it, sergeant. It’s little call you have to be saying
that about me, and you out after me at the time for the murder of the
doctor. Wasn’t that enough for you to be saying, without the other?”

“My wife?” said Mr. Dick. “Did you see her? Was she well?”

“She’s distressed,” said the sergeant. “The whole of them’s distressed,
and small blame to them. I couldn’t rightly tell this minute which of
the ladies was your wife; but they were all round at the barrack this
morning, and it would have gone to your heart to see the way they were.”

“As we’re on the subject of ladies,” said Dr. O’Grady, “I suppose
Miss Blow is out after me. I heard from Patsy that she’d arrived in
Clonmore.”

“You may say she is,” said the sergeant. “She has the officer’s heart
fair broke, pursuing him here and there, and not letting him rest in
his bed at night the way he’d have us all scouring the country for your
dead body.”

“And was it looking for me that brought you here, sergeant?” said Dr.
O’Grady.

“It was after they left the barrack,” said the sergeant, “that the
ladies went up to the Castle--Jimmy O’Loughlin’s boy showing them the
way--thinking that maybe, being a magistrate, Lord Manton would help
them to find yez. What happened there I couldn’t say; but it wasn’t
long after us eating our dinner when the officer came down and Lord
Manton along with him and Miss Blow and the other ladies. Such language
you never heard. There was one lady, tall she was, and dark, with a
kind of a grey dress on her, and a big umbrella under her arm with a
stone knob on the end of the handle of it----”

“My aunt, I think,” said Mr. Sanders.

“She might be. Anyway, barring the doctor’s young lady, she was the
worst of them for wanting to have Mr. Red hanged for murdering the lot
of yez.”

“I wouldn’t wonder if he was hanged,” said Constable Cole, “the way
he’s conducting himself. It’s scandalous.”

“The orders I got,” went on Sergeant Farrelly, “was to proceed
to Rosivera, and ask Mr. Red whether he’d noticed two Members of
Parliament going by his gate on bicycles the day before.”

“And not to be in too great a hurry over the job,” said Constable Cole,
“because you was only doing it to satisfy the ladies.”

“Whisht!” said the sergeant; “what call have you to be repeating
confidential orders? So we came along----”

“Wait a minute,” said Dr. O’Grady. “How did you get off without taking
Miss Blow with you? I’d have expected her to insist on going too.”

“She did,” said the sergeant; “and it was only by means of a stratagem
we got clear of her. It was Constable Cole invented the stratagem.
He’s great at that.”

“How did he manage?”

“Never mind about the stratagem,” said Mr. Sanders; “go on with your
narrative.”

“I’ll tell you about it after,” said the sergeant to Dr. O’Grady in a
whisper. Then he went on delivering himself of his tale very much as if
he were giving evidence in a court of law.

“We reached Rosivera at half-past three P.M. We then knocked at the
door and asked for Mr. Red. We stepped into the hall of the house,
Constable Cole being about two paces behind me. A tall man with a black
beard, whom I can identify and swear to if necessary, came out of a
door on the left, and without warning struck at my head with a stick. I
aimed a blow at him with my fist, not having time to draw my baton, and
knocked him down. I was then engaged by two other men. One of them was
Mr. Red, to whom I am prepared to swear. I shouted to Constable Cole
to strike the man on the ground with his baton, in order to keep him
quiet. Constable Cole did not obey my order.”

“I did not,” said Constable Cole; “sure I might have killed him.”

“We were then overpowered,” said the sergeant, “the man whom I knocked
down coming to the assistance of his comrades. That’s all, gentlemen.”

“I suppose,” said Mr. Dick, “that your officer will immediately
telegraph for the military?”

“He might,” said the sergeant; “but he won’t do it sooner than
to-morrow, anyway. He won’t be expecting us home till late to-night.”

“I must warn the Emperor,” said Dr. O’Grady. “He had better clear out
at once. I shouldn’t like any harm to happen to the Emperor, and I
know he hates soldiers. His whole life is given up to the destruction
of standing armies. He’d break his heart if the military captured him
in the end.”

“Do you mean to say that you intend----” said Mr. Sanders.

“Of course I do,” said Dr. O’Grady. “The Emperor is a thoroughly decent
sort, and has always treated me well. I’m not going to allow him to be
bullied simply to gratify your passion for revenge. You pretend you
think it wrong to gamble, but you’re not above entertaining a spite
against the poor Emperor and wanting to stick a knife into him. I
can tell you, Mr. Sanders, that sort of spirit is a jolly sight more
unchristian than losing a few pence to Patsy Devlin over an innocent
game.”

“The police,” said Mr. Sanders, confidently, “will see that you do not
assist this criminal to escape from justice.”

He looked at Sergeant Farrelly as he spoke. The sergeant scratched his
head.

“Tell me this now,” he said to Dr. O’Grady; “is this any kind of League
work?”

“It is not,” said the doctor. “I don’t suppose the Emperor ever heard
of the League till I mentioned to him the other day that Patsy was a
member of it.”

“If it’s not the League,” said the sergeant, “and if the doctor will
answer for it that the man’s a respectable man----”

“He is,” said the doctor. “Why, my goodness, sergeant, he owns a
motor-car. You’ve seen it yourself, a remarkably fine motor-car; one
that couldn’t have cost less than eight hundred pounds.”

“I don’t know,” said the sergeant, “that there’s any call for me to
interfere with the doctor in the matter. It would be a queer thing now,
and a thing that wouldn’t suit me at all, if I was to be preventing the
doctor from speaking to a friend of his anyway that pleases him.”

“He attacked you,” said Mr. Sanders; “he knocked you down. He has
imprisoned you, and yet you say----”

“If he’s brought up before the Petty Sessions,” said the sergeant,
“I’ll tell what he’s done; but till he is I don’t see what right I
have to put the handcuffs on the doctor on account of what might be no
more than some kind of a joke that’s passing between him and another
gentleman....”



CHAPTER XXV


At ten o’clock next morning Jimmy O’Loughlin entered the commercial
room of his hotel. Miss Blow was breakfasting by herself. Miss
Farquharson, who had finished her breakfast an hour earlier, was
writing letters at one end of the long table, having folded back the
white cloth. Mrs. Dick and Mrs. Sanders were still in their bedrooms,
mourning for their husbands.

“There’s five police after coming into the town from Ballymoy,” said
Jimmy excitedly; “and it’s what I’m after hearing from Moriarty that
there’s more expected.”

Miss Blow looked up from her breakfast. Her face expressed irritation
and incredulity.

“It’s the truth I’m telling you,” said Jimmy. “Begad, but Mr. Goddard’s
the fine man.”

“You told us last night,” said Miss Farquharson, “that Mr. Goddard had
vanished like every one else. Has he appeared again?”

“He never was lost, thanks be to God! He was up with Lord Manton
beyond at the Castle, devising plans and concocting stratagems for the
settling of the matter that’s been troubling you; and settled it’ll be
now the one way or the other.”

“I know the sort of plans he and Lord Manton would be likely to
devise,” said Miss Blow, scornfully. “I’ve had some experience of them.”

She poured out a cup of tea as she spoke and devoted herself to
her breakfast. Bridgy burst into the room. She appeared to be in a
condition of violent excitement.

“There’s four police on a car,” she said, “driving up to the barrack,
and two more along with them on bicycles.”

“Is that four more on top of the first five?” asked Jimmy O’Loughlin.

“It is, it is,” said Bridgy. “The Lord save us and help us! There’d
hardly be more of them if there was to be a Member of Parliament making
speeches about the land!”

“There now,” said Jimmy O’Loughlin, reproachfully, to Miss Blow. “What
did I tell you? Sure, Mr. Goddard’s as fine a man as e’er a one that’s
in it. It’s himself will do a job in fine style when once he takes it
in hand at all. That’s eleven men, and Constable Moriarty makes twelve,
and there was a sergeant with the first lot that I seen myself. Was
there e’er a sergeant on the other car, Bridgy?”

“There was,” said Bridgy. “I took notice of him passing, and one of
them two that came on bicycles had two stripes on his arm.”

“That makes two sergeants and an acting sergeant,” said Jimmy
O’Loughlin. “What more would you expect? What more would anybody want,
unless it would be a gunboat sent round from Cork? And that’s what you
could hardly expect, unless it might be for an eviction on one of the
islands.”

“I’ll see what all these men are going to do,” said Miss Blow, “before
I give an opinion about them. I’ve been----”

“Here’s Mr. Goddard himself,” said Jimmy O’Loughlin, who was standing
near the window, “and his lordship along with him. And they have the
big waggonette from the Castle and the dog-cart with the yellow cob in
it. Be damn, but it’s great!”

Miss Farquharson stood up and looked out of the window. Miss Blow,
obstinately sceptical, continued to eat her breakfast. Mr. Goddard and
Lord Manton entered the room.

“Ladies,” said Mr. Goddard. “In a quarter of an hour we start for
Rosivera.”

“At the head of a small army,” said Lord Manton. “Twelve men armed with
carbines, not counting Mr. Goddard, who wears a sword.”

“Fifteen men,” said Mr. Goddard. “I’m expecting three more. They may
arrive at any minute.”

“I suppose,” said Miss Blow, “that this is some new kind of trick.”

“Come and see,” said Mr. Goddard. “Lord Manton has placed his
waggonette at your disposal. We invite your presence. We insist upon
it.”

“My niece and Mrs. Dick,” said Miss Farquharson, “are still in their
bedrooms.”

“Get them out,” said Lord Manton, “as quickly as possible. There is no
time to be lost. Military expeditions of this sort cannot possibly be
delayed.”

“If so be,” said Jimmy O’Loughlin, “that you’ll be wanting me, as a
magistrate, to be taking depositions or the like----”

“We don’t absolutely require you,” said Lord Manton; “but we’ll be glad
to have you with us.”

“It’ll be better, then,” said Jimmy, “if I go upstairs and put on a
decent coat and shave myself. Bridgy, will you run like a good girl and
get me a cup of hot water?”

“You may change your coat,” said Mr. Goddard, “but you can’t shave.
There isn’t time.”

Miss Blow and Miss Farquharson left the room together.

“Would you have any objection to telling me,” said Jimmy O’Loughlin,
“what is it that you’re thinking of doing?”

“It’s Lord Manton’s plan,” said Mr. Goddard, “not mine. The fact is,
we’re going to Rosivera to marry Mr. Red either to Miss Blow or Miss
Farquharson.”

“And is that the reason you have the police gathered from the four
corners of the county?”

“It is,” said Mr. Goddard.

“I wouldn’t wonder but you’re right. It’s ten to one he won’t care for
the notion; not but what Miss Blow is a fine-looking young lady, and
that’s what I’ve always said since the first time ever I set eyes on
her.”

The street of Clonmore, the single street which runs from end to end
of the village, presented a most unusual appearance when Miss Blow,
followed by the other three ladies, emerged from the hotel. A long
line of vehicles stretched from the door of the post-office to the
barrack. There were two cars, each holding four policemen. They had
their carbines between their knees and presented a most warlike and
determined appearance. Next came a third car, Jimmy O’Loughlin’s, with
two policemen on one side of it, the side left vacant being intended
for Mr. Goddard. Behind it was Lord Manton’s dogcart. Jimmy O’Loughlin
was on the back seat, Lord Manton sat beside the groom in front. Next
came the waggonette with Mrs. Patsy Devlin in it. The acting sergeant
and the constable who had arrived on bicycles stood beside their
machines immediately behind the waggonette. They formed a kind of
rear-guard, and could be counted on to frustrate any attempt which Mr.
Red might make to attack the party from behind.

An eager crowd thronged the footpaths and broke into a cheer when the
ladies appeared.

“Miss Blow, Miss Farquharson and ladies----” said Mr. Goddard, when the
noise of the cheering had subsided.

“We thought you were murdered too,” said Mrs. Dick.

“Kindly do not interrupt me,” said Mr. Goddard. He felt that he was at
last in a position to assert himself even in the face of Miss Blow. A
man acquires self-confidence when he is in command of an armed force.

“We start,” he said, “for Rosivera, to discover whether Mr. Red, the
man Red, as he has been well described, the tenant of that house, has
anything to do with the extraordinary series of disappearances which
have disturbed the peace of this neighbourhood.”

Lord Manton said, “Hear, hear!” from his seat in the dogcart, and the
crowd cheered again.

“We invite your presence, ladies, and place the waggonette which you
see at your disposal. When you are seated in it we start at once. God
save the King!”

“Hear, hear!” said Lord Manton again.

The four ladies, a little bewildered by this oration, took their seats
in the waggonette. Mr. Goddard got up on his car and gave the order to
march. The expedition started.

An hour’s steady driving brought the party to the top of the hill from
which the gate of Rosivera is visible. Mr. Goddard gave the order to
halt. It was passed forward to the leading car, and the expedition came
to a standstill on the summit of the hill. Mr. Goddard got down from
his car and walked up to Lord Manton.

“It’s a damned awkward thing,” he said, “to march up to a man’s house
at the head of a body of men like this.”

“Don’t say you’re thinking of going back,” said Lord Manton. “It would
be a shame to disappoint Miss Blow.”

“I’m not going back; but all the same it’s awkward. What excuse shall I
make?”

“If he’s been kidnapping people,” said Lord Manton, “he won’t expect
you to make any excuse.”

“Oh, of course, if he really has. But has he?”

“The only way of finding out for certain is to go and see. Miss Blow
won’t be satisfied with anything less.”

“Damn Miss Blow. Anyhow, we needn’t drive up to the house as if we were
a funeral.”

He gave an order to the police, who dismounted. Mr. Goddard marched
at the head of them down the hill. Lord Manton and Jimmy O’Loughlin
followed. The ladies, led by Miss Blow, also followed. At the gate of
Rosivera, Mr. Goddard halted his party. He ordered the police to remain
outside the gate. He invited Lord Manton to accompany him to the house.
Then with a glance at the ladies he told one of the sergeants not to
allow any one else to pass the gate.

Miss Blow reached the bottom of the hill and prepared to follow Mr.
Goddard along the avenue. She was stopped by the sergeant. Suspecting
some trick to be played on her at this last and critical moment, she
suggested to Miss Farquharson that they should force their way through
the cordon of police, by making, all four of them, a simultaneous rush.
Miss Farquharson refused to do anything of the sort, and gave it as
her opinion that Mrs. Sanders and Mrs. Dick would be quite useless in
a hand-to-hand conflict. Miss Blow left her, walked a little way along
the road, crossed a ditch, and began to climb the wall which enclosed
the Rosivera grounds. The police eyed her doubtfully. They did not want
to lay violent hands on Miss Blow. They excused themselves to their own
consciences. Their orders were to prevent her passing through the gate.
Mr. Goddard had said nothing about what was to be done if she climbed
the wall.

Mr. Goddard and Lord Manton surveyed the house. It looked peaceful, too
peaceful. There was no sign of its being inhabited.

“Are you sure,” said Mr. Goddard, “that there’s anybody here?”

“I’m not sure,” said Lord Manton. “I only know that I let the house to
the man Red. He may or may not be living in it. I never saw him.”

Mr. Goddard walked up to the door and knocked. There was no answer.
He knocked again. Still there was no answer. He turned the handle and
pushed. The door resisted his push. It was locked.

“What shall we do now?” he said to Lord Manton.

Then he caught sight of Miss Blow, who was crossing the gravel sweep.

“Go back,” he said; “go back at once. This is no place for ladies.”

“I won’t go back,” said Miss Blow. “If I did you’d not enter the house
at all. You would come back in ten minutes and say you had searched it
and that there was nobody inside.”

“My dear Miss Blow,” said Lord Manton, “Mr. Goddard may perhaps
deserve that, but surely I don’t. Be just. Give me credit for common
honesty.”

“I’m sorry I can’t do that,” said Miss Blow.

“You might,” said Lord Manton. “I gave you tea yesterday.”

“You can come with us if you like,” said Mr. Goddard; “but how do you
propose to get in? The door is locked.”

“The top of that is open,” said Miss Blow, pointing with her finger to
the window at the left side of the door, “so I suppose the bottom can
be pushed up.”

Mr. Goddard felt like a burglar, which is an unpleasant sensation for a
police officer, but one which he was getting gradually accustomed to.
He had experienced it when he hid in the stable of Jimmy O’Loughlin’s
hotel and when he entered his own house by way of the back garden.
He had experienced it when he drove out of Ballymoy in the early
morning and when he tried to escape from Lord Manton’s library. He
had experienced it again when he concealed himself in the Clonmore
post-office. He opened the window and climbed in. Miss Blow followed
him. Lord Manton, moving rather stiffly, for he was not used to
climbing, followed her. They stood together in the dining-room.

“Dear me,” said Lord Manton, “what a very remarkable taste Mr. Red has
in wall decoration! Yellow dragons on a crimson ground! Did you ever
see anything like that before, Miss Blow?”

Miss Blow made no answer. She was opening the doors of the small
cupboards in the sideboard, in the hope, perhaps, of discovering the
mutilated remains of some of Mr. Red’s victims. She found nothing but
empty bottles and some wine-glasses.

“Even the door,” said Lord Manton, “has been painted, and there is a
large yellow dragon on it, a mother dragon with several young ones.
You’d better follow her, Goddard.”

He added this hurriedly, and obviously did not refer to the female
dragon. Miss Blow had opened the door and passed through it into the
hall.

“The door opposite to you,” said Lord Manton, “leads into the
drawing-room.”

It did not look like a drawing-room when they entered it. A heavy deal
table, like a carpenter’s bench, stood in the middle of the floor, and
on it were a number of curiously shaped metal flasks. There was a pile
of long brass tubes in one corner of the room, which looked like empty
cartridge cases, intended to contain ammunition for some very large
gun. There were wooden shelves all round the walls stocked with thick
glass bottles, such as are seen in chemists’ shops, bottles with glass
stoppers. In one corner the floor was charred, as if a fire had been
lighted on it.

“Nobody here,” said Mr. Goddard, looking round.

Lord Manton was staring curiously at the things about him. He picked up
one of the brass tubes.

“A.M.B.A.,” he read. “What do you suppose that means, Miss Blow? Hullo!
She’s gone again. After her, Goddard! We can’t allow her to escape.
There may be an explosion at any moment. This place looks uncommonly
explosive, and if she is shattered into little bits her father will
hold us responsible.”

Miss Blow stood at the bottom of the stairs, listening intently.

“I hear a noise in the upper story,” she said. “The house isn’t empty.”

Mr. Goddard and Lord Manton listened.

“There is a noise,” said Lord Manton. “Goddard, unsheathe your sword
and proceed cautiously up the first flight of stairs. We will protect
your rear.”

They reached the first floor of the house and the noise became much
more plainly audible.

“It sounds to me,” said Lord Manton, “as if Mr. Red--the man Red, I
mean--and his friends were having a hurdle race in the attics.”

“Go on,” said Miss Blow.

“Let us pause for a moment,” said Lord Manton, “and consider the
situation before we rush headlong into some unknown danger. I am
inclined to think that several men are jumping hurdles, and from the
occasional violence of the bumps I should say that one of them is a
heavy man, much heavier than the others. Can you infer anything else
from the noise we hear, Miss Blow? Or you, Goddard? Very well, if
neither of you can, we may as well go on, bearing in mind that there
are several men and that one of them is large.”

They climbed two more flights of stairs and reached the top story of
the house. The noise sounded very loud. Guided by it they reached the
door of a room at the end of the passage. Mr. Goddard knocked. There
was no reply, but this did not surprise him, for the noise inside was
so great as to drown the knock.

“Go in,” said Miss Blow.

Mr. Goddard turned the handle. “The door is locked,” he said.

“The key is on the outside,” said Miss Blow. “Turn it.”

“As landlord of the house,” said Lord Manton, “allow me.”

He turned the key and flung open the door. Inside were Dr. O’Grady, Mr.
Dick, Patsy Devlin, Sergeant Farrelly and Constable Cole. They were
playing leapfrog. Mr. Sanders sat on a bed in the corner and watched
them. Dr. O’Grady, executing a splendid bound over Sergeant Farrelly’s
broad back, landed on his feet opposite the door just as it opened.

“Adeline Maud,” he said, “I’m delighted to see you. Have you been here
long? I hope you weren’t kept waiting at the door.”



CHAPTER XXVI


“Dear me!” said Lord Manton; “all our lost sheep found again. One, two,
three, four, five, six. Yes, the whole six of you.”

“You’re not dead,” said Miss Blow, clutching at Dr. O’Grady’s arm;
“you’re not dead then, after all.”

“My wife,” said Mr. Dick, “my poor wife. Can any of you tell me----”

“Sergeant Farrelly,” said Mr. Goddard. “Will you kindly explain how it
is that I find you here playing leapfrog with----”

“I thought it was a hurdle race,” said Lord Manton. “It sounded exactly
like a hurdle race.”

Sergeant Farrelly drew himself up to attention.

“In obedience to your orders, sir,” he said, “Constable Cole and I
proceeded to Rosivera on our bicycles, leaving Clonmore at a few
minutes after twelve o’clock. Acting on instructions received, we rode
as slowly as possible----”

“You can leave out that part,” said Mr. Goddard, with a glance at Miss
Blow, “and go on.”

“We have been kidnapped and imprisoned here,” said Mr. Sanders; “and I
demand that the police shall instantly pursue----”

“Lucius,” said Miss Blow, “have you been imprisoned?”

“Certainly not,” said Dr. O’Grady; “we’ve been the guests of Mr. Red;
haven’t we, Patsy?”

“We have, be damn!” said Patsy Devlin. “What was there to hinder us
going off any time we wanted?”

“I don’t understand,” said Miss Blow.

“I demand----” said Mr. Sanders again.

“We were prisoners,” said Mr. Dick; “and I join with my friend Sanders
in insisting that the men who captured us shall be brought to justice.
I insist upon it for the sake of my poor wife----”

“You shut up,” said Dr. O’Grady. “If either you or that ass Sanders
says another word, I’ll tell how you came to be here.”

“I demand----” said Mr. Sanders.

“Very well,” said Dr. O’Grady. “Excuse me, Adeline Maud, but would you
mind leaving the room for a moment? The story I have to tell is not
exactly one for a lady to listen to.”

“If it’s very improper,” said Lord Manton, “perhaps I’d better go too.
I was very carefully brought up when I was young.”

“It’s simply this,” said Dr. O’Grady, “that Mr. Dick was found by the
Emperor bathing on the shore in company with----”

“I wasn’t,” said Mr. Dick.

“You may try to wriggle out of it now,” said Dr. O’Grady; “but you
told me at the time that you were, and the other fellow, who says he’s
a Member of Parliament, but looks like a commercial traveller, was
mending a bicycle for a lady, who----”

“If these stories,” said Lord Manton, “are the sort which are likely to
break up the happiness of two homes, I hope you won’t tell them. Mrs.
Dick and Mrs. Sanders are outside, as well as Miss Farquharson, who is
an aunt.”

“I don’t want to tell them,” said Dr. O’Grady. “I’d much rather keep
them to myself. But I won’t have the Emperor pursued.”

“Sergeant,” said Mr. Goddard, “proceed with your evidence, leaving out
all the part about my orders.”

“Why?” said Miss Blow. “Are you ashamed of your orders? What were they?”

“If you’ve anything to be ashamed of in the orders you gave, Goddard,”
said Dr. O’Grady, “you’d better not have that story told either. I warn
you fairly that if any attempt is made to molest the Emperor, I shall
have those orders of yours, whatever they are, produced in court.”

“We might get on a little,” said Lord Manton, “if some one would tell
us who the Emperor is.”

“He’s an anarchist,” said Mr. Sanders.

“An anti-military anarchist, a most dangerous man,” added Mr. Dick.

“I’ve warned you once already,” said Dr. O’Grady, “what will happen if
you persist in talking that way. Even supposing the poor old Emperor is
all you say, isn’t it a great deal better to blow up a few armies, than
to go about the country deceiving innocent women when each of you has a
wife at home? Patsy Devlin will bear me out in saying that the Emperor
is a most respectable man, large-hearted, generous to a fault; a little
eccentric, perhaps, but a thoroughly good sort.”

“Do explain,” said Lord Manton, “who the Emperor is, and how you and
Patsy Devlin and the Members of Parliament and the police all come to
be here, playing leapfrog in an attic.”

“The Emperor,” said Dr. O’Grady, “is Mr. Red. He sent for me to
attend a servant of his who had unfortunately scorched the back of his
legs while assisting in some scientific experiments in the Chamber of
Research.”

“The drawing-room?” asked Lord Manton.

“The room that used to be the drawing-room,” said Dr. O’Grady. “I have
been in attendance on the man ever since, earning a fee of five pounds
a day. That doesn’t look as if I was badly treated, does it; or as if I
was kept here against my will? There’s no other reason, so far, why the
poor Emperor should be ruthlessly pursued, as these gentlemen suggest.”

“No,” said Lord Manton. “So far his record is clear. Go on.”

“Patsy Devlin,” said Dr. O’Grady, “came here to take refuge from the
police. He hadn’t done anything particularly wrong, nothing worse than
usual; but some one had put out the absurd story that he had murdered
me, and advised him to fly to America.”

“I’m afraid I was responsible for that,” said Lord Manton. “I
wanted----”

“Very well,” said Dr. O’Grady. “If the Emperor is pursued and caught,
that story will come out too. You will have to explain in open court
why you treated Patsy Devlin in such a way.”

“And why you treated me as you did,” said Miss Blow.

“And why you treated Adeline Maud as you did,” said Dr. O’Grady. “I
don’t exactly know how you did treat her, but if you pursue the Emperor
I’ll insist on finding out.”

“I won’t pursue him,” said Lord Manton. “I promise not to. As a matter
of fact, I don’t want to pursue him in the least. He paid his rent in
advance.”

“Patsy Devlin,” said Dr. O’Grady, “was sheltered, lodged, and fed by
the Emperor, and has no complaint whatever to make. Have you, Patsy?”

“I have not. Only for him, they’d have had me hanged for murdering you,
doctor; which is what I wouldn’t do, and never thought of.”

“And you don’t want to have the Emperor pursued?”

“I do not,” said Patsy.

“We pass on,” said Dr. O’Grady, “to the case of the two Members of
Parliament--if they are Members of Parliament. I don’t want to make
myself unnecessarily unpleasant, especially as I understand that their
wives, their real wives, are waiting for them----”

“I protest----” said Mr. Dick.

“I always told you, Goddard,” said Lord Manton, “that there was
something of this sort, something uncommonly fishy behind the
disappearance of these two gentlemen. You’ll recollect that. But I must
say I didn’t expect it to be as bad as this.”

“I protest----” said Mr. Dick and Mr. Sanders together.

“I need say no more about them,” said Dr. O’Grady. “The Emperor, out of
sheer kindness of heart, saved them from what might have been a very
ugly scandal. I don’t want to drag the whole thing into the light of
day; but if they insist upon the pursuit of the Emperor, I shall tell
the truth so far as I know it, and the Emperor, when you catch him,
will fill in the details.”

“There’s nothing,” said Mr. Dick, “absolutely nothing----”

“There may be nothing,” said Lord Manton; “but from the little I’ve
heard I should say that Mrs. Dick will have a distinct grievance;
and as for your aunt, Mr. Sanders--you know her better than I do, of
course, but she doesn’t strike me as the kind of lady who will treat
the doctor’s story as a mere trifle.”

“As to the police,” said Dr. O’Grady, “I don’t profess to explain
exactly how they came here. Goddard seems to have given them some
very peculiar orders, orders that won’t bear repeating. I don’t want
to probe into the secrets of the force. I have a respect for Sergeant
Farrelly; I used to have a respect for Goddard----”

“You won’t have any respect for him when you hear how he has treated
me,” said Miss Blow.

“You hear that, Goddard?” said Dr. O’Grady. “Adeline Maud says you’ve
been ill-treating her. That’s a thing I can’t and won’t stand from any
man living, and if you make the smallest attempt to annoy the Emperor
in any way, I’ll publish her story in the newspapers, and what’s more,
I’ll hire the best barrister in Dublin to cross-examine you about the
orders you gave to Sergeant Farrelly and Constable Cole.”

“What you suggest, then,” said Lord Manton, “is to leave the whole
matter wrapped in a decent obscurity--to let the dead past bury its
dead. I quite agree. None of us want our share in the proceedings of
the last few days made public. But will Miss Blow consent to allow the
man Red--it’s her phrase, doctor, not mine; so don’t be angry with
it--to allow the man Red to escape scot free? After all, it was she who
urged us on to have him hanged.”

“Adeline Maud,” said Dr. O’Grady, “has more sense than to quarrel with
a man who has been paying me five pounds a day. He suggested four
pounds at first; but he sprang it to a fiver the moment I made the
suggestion.”

“Of course, if Miss Blow is satisfied----” said Lord Manton.

“She is,” said Dr. O’Grady. “Aren’t you, Adeline Maud?”

“Now that I know you’re safe----” said Miss Blow.

“In any case,” said Dr. O’Grady, “your pursuit would be quite useless.
The Emperor started at ten o’clock last night in his motor-car. It must
be after twelve now, so he has fourteen hours’ start of you. By the
time you get back to Clonmore and send off telegrams----”

“I shall insist,” said Mr. Dick; “I shall never consent----”

“You go out at once to your wife,” said Dr. O’Grady. “Didn’t you hear
Lord Manton say that she is outside waiting for you? You’ve been
swaggering about the way you loved her ever since I first met you
walking about with nothing on you but your shirt. I don’t believe you
care a pin about her. If you did, you’d be with her now, relieving her
anxiety, instead of standing about here talking like a born fool. As I
was saying, Goddard, by the time you’ve sent off telegrams----”

“I don’t want to send off any more telegrams,” said Mr. Goddard; “I had
enough of that yesterday.”

“In any case,” said Dr. O’Grady, “I don’t think you’d catch him, when
he’d have fifteen or sixteen hours’ start of your telegrams. It was a
good car, and I don’t believe you so much as know the number of it.”

“The only thing that troubles me,” said Mr. Goddard, “is the
Inspector-General. He’ll be in Clonmore by this time.”

“Is he mixed up in it?”

“Yes,” said Lord Manton. “He and the Lord Lieutenant, and the Chief
Secretary, and the Prime Minister; though I’m not quite sure about the
Prime Minister. It’s a State affair. The whole Empire is on the tip-toe
of excited expectation to find out what has happened.”

“All you can do,” said Dr. O’Grady, “is to tell them the truth.”

“The truth?” said Lord Manton.

“Yes; the simple truth, just as I’ve told it to you; doing your best,
of course, to spare Mr. Sanders and Mr. Dick, especially Mr. Dick, on
account of his poor wife.”

“I’m not sure,” said Mr. Goddard, “that they’d believe--I mean to say,
I’m not sure that I could venture to tell them the truth--that exact
kind of truth, I mean.”

“If you don’t care to tell it yourself,” said Dr. O’Grady, “get Jimmy
O’Loughlin to tell it for you. He’d do it; wouldn’t he, Patsy?”

“Be damn, but he would,” said Patsy Devlin. “He’d tell it without as
much as turning a hair, so soon as ever he knew what it was you wanted
him to tell.”


THE END



TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

This text has been preserved as in the original, including archaic and
inconsistent spelling, punctuation and grammar, except as noted below.

Obvious printer’s errors have been silently corrected.

Illustration notation has been moved to below any enclosing paragraph.

Text in italics in the original work is represented herein as _text_.

Small capitals in the original work are represented herein as all
capitals.





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