Next morning O'Hanlon went back by himself to Kilbarry. Jerry O'Brien made up his mind to stay a few days at Kilcash. His last words to the perturbed attorney were encouraging, reassuring. He would divulge nothing, nor indicate the nature of his hopes; but he told O'Hanlon in a confident manner that he might dismiss all thought of his brain being affected. "I now," he said, "verily believe you saw a ghost, the ghost of Mike Fahey, on the Black Rock within the past month. Will that satisfy you?"

O'Hanlon shook his head.

"I'm in the old fix still. I don't believe in ghosts; neither do you, I am sure. You are saying this merely to quiet my fears."

"You may trust me, I assure you. I am not saying anything out of a desire to quiet your fears. If I do not tell you all, I am prevented from doing so only by the want of conclusive evidence. I shall hang about here until some more evidence turns up. I really believe what you saw was no figment of your own brain."

They parted thus. O'Hanlon was little satisfied, still he had no resource but to endure. His faith in O'Brien was great in everything save this one subject, which so unpleasantly and threateningly engrossed his thoughts. He was a man of sanguine temperament, and now the strength and impetuosity of his mind was turned inward and preyed on his peace.

O'Brien had little or nothing to do. His curiosity was strongly excited. Owing to the uncertainty of the movements of the Fishery Commissioners he could not leave the country. His heart was in London; no hour went over his head that he did not think of his friends there. He wrote to Mr. Paulton, and to his great relief heard that Alfred was gradually recovering, and that Dr. Santley hoped to have his patient up and about in a short time, his youth and good constitution favouring rapid convalescence now that the acute stage of the disease was passed. All at Carlingford House were well, and joined in sending kindest regards to him, and hoped he would soon get rid of his troublesome business, and run back to them. There was a postscript to the effect that Dr. Santley had just that moment pronounced Alfred out of danger, and said that he hoped in a fortnight or three weeks the invalid would be able to seek change of air and scene--the two things which would then be sufficient to ensure his restoration.

O'Brien, upon reading this, struck the table with his hand, and cried out:

"Capital!--capital! Nothing could be better! This is the mildest climate in all Europe. He shall come here. I'll run over for him if all the Fishery Commissioners whom Satan can spare were to try and bar my way. The least I may do after causing that relapse is to nurse him for a while."

O'Brien had little or nothing to do in Kilcash. No newspapers came to him from London or Dublin. After luncheon he walked every day along the downs as far as the Black Rock. There, when the weather was fine, he lounged for an hour or so, and then strolled back to the hotel, where he read some book until dinner.

The "Strand Hotel" was of course deserted. He was the only guest, and the staff had been reduced to one maid-of-all-work.

"If Alfred wants quiet," thought Jerry, grimly, "he can have it here with a vengeance. As long as those wretched Commissioners are about, I could not stand Kilbarry. I'd be an object of commiseration there, and I can't bear commiseration. If I only had Alfred here I'd be as happy as a king. But until he comes I must try and keep up an interest in O'Hanlon's ghost. I begin now to think O'Hanlon is going mad, after all; for I can neither hear nor see anything of the late Mr. Fahey. It wouldn't do to tell my misgivings to O'Hanlon. He really is cut up about that spectre, and the only way to keep his spirits up is by professing an unbounded belief in his phantom."

No doubt Kilcash was dull, and would have been found intolerable by any one not used to such a place at such a time. But O'Brien had been brought up close to the sea, and its winter aspect was as familiar to him as its summer glories.

In summer, the sun and the clouds and the genial warmth of the air take the mind off the sea, and reduce it to a mere accessory to the scene. It is only one of many things which claim attention. In winter the sea is absolute, dominant--master of the scene. In its presence there is nothing to take the mind away from it. The land and the air and the clouds have suffered change: the sea is alone immutable. It is not then the adjunct to a holiday. In winter and summer its colour is the result of reflection; but the dull, gloomy colours it reflects in winter seem more congenial to it than the vivid brightness of gayer skies.

From his childhood O'Brien had been familiar with every phase of change that possesses the watery waste. There was for him no loneliness by the shore. He was no poet in the ordinary sense of the word. He had never tried to string rhymes together. He considered that a man who deliberately sat down to write verses which were not intended purely to bring in money must be in a bad state of health. He never concerned himself with elaborate analysis of his feelings, or moaned because the destinies had not ordained splendours for his career. He wished the Commissioners would let his weirs alone, so that he might marry Madge Paulton. He wanted to lead a quiet, unromantic life. He felt much more relief in abusing the Commissioners than he should feel in writing a mournful ditty against fate.

But he was in love, and dwelling by the sea in winter. He had inadvertently caused his dearest friend a serious relapse in illness, and he was asked by another friend to help him over a horrible suspicion that this other friend had of his own sanity. Here surely was matter for abundance of thought. So that, on the whole, he had no moment of the day that was not filled with engrossing reflection of some kind or another.

He answered Mr. Paulton's letter at once. He was overjoyed to hear the good news of Alfred, and he had made up his mind beyond any chance of alteration that the finest place in the world for Alfred would be the south of Ireland, and that there was no spot in the south of Ireland at all equal to Kilcash for any one who needed recruiting. Then he sent his very kindest regards to each member of the family by name, and tried to write "Miss Paulton" like the rest of the letter, but failed, so that it was the most ill-written part of all. He had little hope of Alfred's coming.

To his astonishment he got a reply thanking him for his kind invitation, and saying that although Dr. Santley at first thought the south of Europe would be preferable, he had at length yielded to Alfred's earnest importunities to be sent to Ireland, where he could enjoy the society of his friend Jerry, which he was certain would tend more to his recovery than anything else in the world.

"I am astonished," thought O'Brien, "that he did not insist on going abroad, if it was only for the chance of meeting that siren who has bewitched him. There is one thing plain from this--he has not only got over his dangerous physical illness, but that much more dangerous affection of the heart from which he has been suffering. What a madness that was! I hope and trust, for his sake, that woman has married Blake by this time. But no--I do not. That would be too bad a fate to wish even to an enemy; and surely she has never done me harm."

O'Brien did not repeat his visit to the "Blue Anchor," but now and then he met burly Jim Phelan, the boatman, and talked to him about the Black Rock and the Whale's Mouth.

For the first week O'Brien was at Kilcash the weather had been singularly calm. It had rained nearly every day; nothing else was to be expected there at that time of the year. But scarcely a breath of wind touched the sea. The long even rollers slid into the bay, and burst upon the sands in front of the village. They flung themselves wearily, carelessly against the cliffs without the bay, and after tossing their arms languidly a moment in the air, fell back exhausted into their foamy bed.

One morning, as O'Brien was walking on the strand after breakfast, he met Jim Phelan, and, as usual, got into talk with him. After a few sentences of ordinary interest, Jim said:

"The other night, sir, at the 'Blue Anchor,' you asked me a whole lot about the Black Rock and the Whale's Mouth. Did you ever see her spout?"

"No," answered O'Brien, looking at the south-western region of the sky. "I have often been here, winter and summer, but I have never been so fortunate. Do you think there's going to be a gale?"

"Yes, sir; there's going to be a heavy gale from the southward and westward, and it will be high water at about three. You can see the scuds flying aloft already, and I'm greatly mistaken if we haven't a whole gale before a couple of hours are over. That won't give much time for the sea to get up, but I am sure she'll spout to-day even before the top of high water. Anyway, if she doesn't, I'm greatly mistaken. Would you like to go over and see it, sir?"

"Yes, Jim. I have nothing particular to do to-day, and I certainly should like to see it."

"Very good, sir. I have nothing particular to do to-day either, and if you like I'll go over with you."

"I should be very glad. When shall we start?"

"Well, sir, if you are to see it you may as well be there at the beginning, so we'll be off at once. Did you feel that?"

"Yes."

A puff of warm wind touched the two men, and then the air was still again.

"Go on, then, sir, to the hotel and put on your oilskins. I'll run and get mine, and be back in a minute."

"But I haven't got oilskins!" said O'Brien, with a smile. "Will a mackintosh and gaiters do?"

The boatman looked long and fixedly into the south-west before he answered:

"No, sir; a mackintosh would not be any use out there against what's coming. This will be a whole gale, or I'm a Dutchman. It's been brewing a long time, and we're going to have it now, and no mistake. I'll get you a set of oilskins, and maybe if you went up to the hotel and put your flask in your pocket, it wouldn't be out of the way by-and-by. I'll bring the oilskins up to the hotel."

"All right," said O'Brien; and he set off.

In less than half-an-hour he found himself in a clumsy, ill-fitting set of oilskins a size too big. Jim had brought a sou'-wester also. He himself wore his own oilskins and his sou'-wester, and, so equipped, the two set out for the Black Rock.

As they reached the high ground of the downs, another gust of wind, stronger and of longer duration than the former one, struck them. Jim tied the strings of his sou'-wester under his chin, and O'Brien followed his example.

"It will be a sneezer," said the boatman, shaking himself loose in his over-alls, as if getting ready for action.

The sea was still unruffled. The two puffs of wind which had come as the advance guard of the storm had passed lightly and daintily over the sleeping ocean. The long clean-backed rollers swept slowly shoreward, staggering a little here and there when they passed over some sunken rock. Down in the south-west the sky was leaden-coloured, with long fangs of cloud stretching towards the land and gradually stealing upward and onward. An unnatural stillness filled the air. No wild bird of any kind was to be seen. The gulls had long ago sailed far inland. There were few sea birds here but gulls.

"We'll be there before the first puff," said Phelan, buttoning the lowest button of his coat. "She hasn't spouted now since a little after Christmas. In that southerly gale we had then she spouted fine."

"Did it come over the cliffs?"

"No, sir--not quite up to the cliffs. 'Twas a southerly gale, you know; and it takes a south-westerly gale to send it over the cliffs. Ah, that was a stiffer squall than the last! It's coming on. Heaven help the ship that makes this a lee shore for the next twenty-four hours!"

The prediction was verified, for a fierce gust had caught O'Brien in front and threatened to tear the strings out of his sou'-wester.

The two men turn and resume their way. The torn skirts of the south-western pall of cloud are now almost overheard. They are hurrying on at a dizzy rate. Out far upon the water under the lowering cloud a dulness has crept. The great mirror of the sea has been breathed upon and sullied by the wind. In shore, the waves rise and fall tranquilly.

The squalls now become frequent. Although the solid mass of the water beneath is still unchanged, when the gusts fly across the waves and strike the cliffs the foam is blown upward, hissing, and bursts into smoke against the crags. From under the broadening cloud a faint whispering sound comes, thin and shrill like a broadened whisper of the wind in grass.

"Do you think the storm will last so long as twenty-four hours?"

"Impossible to say, sir. But I think there's that much due to us. Turn your back to it, sir."

They draw near the Black Rock. Each man keeps his body bent to windward ready to meet the next onslaught of the gale. Now only a few seconds pass between each gust. Each gust is stronger and longer than the former one. When they are within a few hundred yards of the rock, when they can plainly see the outline of the little bay in which it is wedged, the storm bursts fully upon them. One blast strikes them, and lasts a minute. They are obliged to stand still, leaning against the gale. A lull of a few seconds follows, and then the broad, mighty torrent of the wind bursts upon them in its uninterrupted fury, and for a while it seems as if they must be swept away by its persistent, tremendous force.

At length they turn round, and, holding on their sou'-westers, gaze into the face of the wind. The sea is now boiling, churning, but not yet roused. Foam spurts aloft, where, before, the dull blue waters rose and fell unbroken. The spray crawls further and further upward against the red-brown cliffs. The roar and tumult of the wind is pressing against them. The roar and tumult of the waters have not yet begun.

At that moment Phelan catches O'Brien by the arm, and points towards the Black Rock. The figure of a man is seen clearly against the sky-line. It gradually sinks from view. It is descending the path to the Black Rock below.

"Let us run," shouts Phelan. "It is certain death if he goes down."

They run at the top of their speed in their clumsy oilskins. They reach the cliff directly over the fatal rock. They look down, around, at one another. Both start back with cries of surprise and horror.

No one is to be seen.