At Queen’s Farm, Hockliffe, the excitations of the terrible evening on which Juana faced her father, and on which Richard and Teresa were betrothed, seemed to have exhausted the actors in those trying scenes. Only Teresa herself maintained her spirits through a night of sleeplessness, and Teresa’s eyes disclosed a simple and profound happiness of the soul, which proved how well the forced engagement with Richard suited her inclinations. As for Richard, he, too, was happy in the betrothal, but his experience of the world—a thousandfold greater than Teresa’s—was responsible for forebodings that filled him with apprehension. He could not but feel that disaster—perhaps immediate disaster—waited upon the schemes of Raphael Craig, those schemes of whose success the old man was so proudly confident Richard guessed, naturally, that Raphael Craig was waging war on Simon Lock, and his common-sense predicted with assurance that in this struggle of the weak against the strong the strong would crush and the weak would be crushed. The exact nature of Raphael Craig’s plan, of which Richard was still in ignorance, seemed to the young man to be a matter of comparative unimportance. He perceived, at any rate, that the campaign was a financial one. That was enough; in the realm of finance Simon Lock had long been peerless, and though, as the newspaper hinted, Simon was temporarily at a disadvantage, it was absurd to pretend for an instant that Raphael Craig, undistinguished, even unknown, could win.

So ran the course of Richard’s thoughts as he lay resting during the early hours of the morning on the Chesterfield in the drawing-room. Raphael Craig had retired to his room. Teresa had also retired. Juana and Bridget were attending on the stricken detective. Each had expressed her intention of sitting up all night. Whenever Richard’s somewhat somnolent meditations turned in the direction of the detective he could not help thinking that here, in this sick man, helpless, hurt, delirious, was the instrument of Simon Lock’s ultimate success. Nolan knew, or Nolan shrewdly surmised now, that Raphael Craig had grossly outraged the Coinage Acts. Nolan had doubtless collected a sufficient body of evidence at least to secure a committal for trial, and so it was an indubitable fact to be faced that, immediately Nolan recovered, or partially recovered, the forces of the law would be set in motion against Craig—against Craig, the father of his betrothed. Then—Queen’s Farm would doubtless explode like a bomb!

But was Raphael Craig the father of his betrothed? Had Juana lied on the previous night, or had the old man lied? Here were questions which Richard preferred to shirk rather than to answer.

A much more important question was, What would Raphael Craig be likely to do in regard to Nolan? As things stood, Nolan was at his mercy—helpless in his house. Certainly Craig would by this time have arrived at the conclusion that instantly Nolan was enabled to leave the house his own ruin would occur. Richard did not believe that Craig’s scheme could possibly succeed after Craig was clapped in prison as a coiner. He, indeed, suspected that Craig had only made this boast in order to dispel any suspicions which Richard might entertain as to the bodily safety of Nolan within the precincts of Queen’s Farm.

Yet it came to that: Richard was not without fear that the old man might attempt to murder Nolan. Nolan dead, and his body disposed of, Craig was safe. It was a frightful thought, but Raphael Craig’s demeanour whenever he referred to his life-long scheme of vengeance gave at least some excuse for it.

At eight o’clock there was a tap at the drawing-room door. Richard jumped up and came out of the room. Bridget stood before him.

‘Miss Teresa up?’ he asked.

‘No,’ said the housekeeper, ‘and not likely to be yet, the darling! I came to give ye a hint, Mr. Redgrave, that ye might do worse than seek a breakfast down in the village, at the White Horse.’

‘Micky, ye mean? Better—though the spalpeen doesn’t deserve God’s goodness nor Miss Juana’s loving care.’

‘Mr. Craig up?’ he asked further ‘No,’ said Bridget.

‘Yes,’ said Richard, ‘I’ll go down to the village, and come back again in a couple of hours.’

‘How’s the patient?’ he asked.

He passed quietly out of the house. He had, however, not the slightest intention of going down to the village. Determined to ignore the fact that he had been caught as a spy once, and the risk that he might be caught again, he turned to the left as soon as he was out of the garden and crept under the garden wall up to the sheds, which he cautiously entered. Safely within the range of buildings, he soon found an outlook therefrom which commanded a view of the house—a vantage-point whence he could see without being seen.

Nothing unusual occurred. Indeed, save that Bridget came forth to attend to the mares, having doubtless been instructed to do so by Teresa, nothing occurred at all till a little after nine o’clock. Then Mr. Craig issued quickly out of the house, went along the boreen, and down towards the village. At a discreet distance Richard followed him, for he deemed it his bounden-duty to keep an eye on Raphael Craig until Nolan, the detective, should have departed from the house. It was not pleasant for him to think of his prospective father-in-law as a potential murderer, but he had no alternative save to face the possibility. It is a full mile from Queen’s Farm to Hockliffe village. Mr. Craig, however, walked quickly, and the distance was soon accomplished. The old man went into the general store, which is also the post-office—a tiny place crammed with the produce of the East and of the West. After a moment’s hesitation, Richard also walked towards the post-office. When he reached it, Mr. Craig was in the act of paying for a telegram.

‘Hullo! Good-morning,’ said Raphael Craig blithely. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I came for some stamps,’ Richard answered.

‘Hum! They said you’d gone down to the village for breakfast. What with one thing and another, our household arrangements are somewhat upset, I’m afraid. Ta-ta!’

Raphael Craig left the shop, apparently quite incurious as to Richard’s doings or plans for the day. Richard was decidedly reassured by the man’s demeanour. He seemed as sane, as calm, as collected as a bank manager could be. And yet—last night!

Richard breakfasted at the hostelry of the White Horse, and then walked slowly back to Queen’s Farm. As he approached the house he met Richard Craig again going down to the village. Four times that day the old man went down himself to the village post-office to despatch telegrams, and he openly stated that he was going to despatch telegrams.

Teresa was in the orchard, and Richard went to her. He said that he did not see how he could stay longer in the house, that he ought to return to London, and yet that he scarcely cared to leave.

To his surprise, Teresa appeared agitated and distressed at the mere idea of his leaving.

‘Don’t go at present,’ she urged him. ‘Stay at least another twenty-four hours. Just think how I am fixed. That man ill and delirious—by the way, Juana won’t leave his side—and father and Juana not on speaking terms. There is no knowing what may happen. We needn’t pretend to each other, Dick, that there isn’t something very peculiar and mysterious about father. I dare say you know more than I do, and I shan’t ask questions. I don’t want to know, Dick, so long as you’re here. But do stay a bit. Stay till something turns up.’

‘Till something turns up?’ He repeated her phrase. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said simply; ‘but stay.’

He kissed her.

That night Richard was provided with a bed, but he found himself unable to sleep on it. About the middle of the night—or so it seemed to him—there was a rap on his door.

‘Mr. Redgrave.’

The voice was Juana’s.

‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘Anything the matter?’

‘Can you come and speak to Mr. Nolan? He wants to speak to you, and nothing else will satisfy him.’

Richard rose and dressed, and came out on the landing, where a lamp was burning. Juana, fully dressed, her eyes ringed with fatigue, stood waiting for him. She beckoned him down the side-passage, and he entered the room occupied by the sick man.

‘Shut the door,’ the sick man commanded in a febrile voice.

As though it had been previously arranged between them, Juana kept out of the room. Richard and the detective were alone together.

‘You’re looking better,’ Richard said.

‘Don’t talk so loud,’ said Nolan. ‘That old scoundrel sleeps next door. Yes, I’m better,’ he went on rather wearily, shifting the position of a pillow, ‘thanks to nursing. I wish to say something to you. You know a good deal about my business up here. You’ve been on the same business yourself. Well, look here: if any questions are asked, I don’t want you to know anything about what I’ve done or what I’ve found out.’

‘Whatever do you mean?’ Richard asked. ‘Oh dear!’ the other said pettishly; ‘can’t you understand? I mean down at Scotland Yard. If any of ‘em should come to you, you know, say nothing. Fact is, I’m going to let the old man off, if I can—I’m bound to let him off. It’s all got to be hushed up, if Mr. Nolan, Esquire, can manage it.’

‘Why?’ asked Richard calmly.

‘Why did you chuck the job up?’ returned Nolan. ‘Can’t I follow your example?’

‘Do you mean that you—er—Miss Juana?’

‘Precisely,’ said Nolan. ‘I met her down at Limerick months ago—long before the death of old Featherstone—when I was engaged on inquiries about old Craig’s antecedents, to try if I couldn’t throw any light on the matter of his treasure of new silver, which has interested the police for a year past. I met her. I hadn’t the least notion that she was his daughter. I was afraid that I should never see her again. And then, when I woke up in the cursed little room here and found her bending over me—by Heaven, it was too much! For the time, I do believe, it made me worse. She has told me a lot to-day. I haven’t been delirious since early this morning. Oh yes, Redgrave, I’ve got to chuck it. I wouldn’t harm that woman, or anything that belonged to her—not to be Chief of Police in Paris! You and I must put our heads together and concoct a tale that will satisfy the people in London.’

The door opened, and Juana entered with a firm step.

‘Time’s up,’ she said, looking at the man in bed. ‘I gave you five minutes, and you’ve had ten. Good-night, Mr. Redgrave—and thanks.’

Here indeed was spirited nursing.

Richard retired to his own room, intending to think things over, but instead of thinking, for some reason or other, he slept heavily till nine o’clock. Then he dressed and descended, and, seeing no one about, went into the garden. Almost at the same moment a light trap drove up to the garden-gate. Telling the driver not to wait, a man got down from the vehicle. It was Mr. Simon Lock.

‘Ah! Mr. Redgrave,’ said Simon Lock, ‘you seem to be at home here. Can you tell me if Mr. Craig is at home?’