When O'Brien got back to the "Strand Hotel" at Kilcash, he thought the whole matter over for an hour or so. Then he sat down and wrote a note:

"My dear O'Hanlon,

"Jim Phelan, the boatman, and I went to the Black Rock to-day to see the Puffing Hole spout. When within a few hundred yards of the cliff over the Rock, we both plainly saw the figure of a man, which Phelan declared to be Fahey's! Are you satisfied now? I am not. I'll run in to Kilbarry to-morrow.

"Yours always,

"Jeremiah O'Brien."

Then he ate his dinner, and went out to pay another visit to the "Blue Anchor."

By this time Jim Phelan had told the story of that day's visit to the Black Rock to many of the villagers, and although the simple fisher folk as a rule retired very early during the long nights, most of them made an exception on this occasion. Many of the men and women sought neighbours' houses, and discussed the mysterious appearance of the form of Fahey hours after their usual time for going to bed.

But Jim himself was not at any of these domestic gatherings. He was the hero of the hour, and the natural place for a hero was the taproom of the "Blue Anchor."

There was a feeling among the men of Kilcash that no subject of prime importance to the village could be discussed anywhere else so well as in the taproom of the "Blue Anchor." Ordinary events of an ordinary day might be suited to the shelter of the Storm Wall on the shoreward face in a breeze or rain, or the rocks beneath the wall when the weather was fine. But neither of these, nor even the bar of the "Blue Anchor" itself, accorded with grave or exciting discourse of an exceptional nature. The taproom was the only place in which men could give unbridled license to debate. Here one could not only unbend, but give expression to the most audacious theories without danger of reproof or repression by wives or mothers.

When O'Brien entered, a dozen men were crowded into the dimly-lighted, squalid room. As he had drawn near the house he heard voices raised in eager conversation. His entrance was the signal for silence. This was partly owing to his superior social position, and partly to the fact that his name had mingled freely in the talk for some time. He sat down, called for beer for himself and those around him, and lit a cigar. The storm was still blowing so strongly that he had found it impossible to smoke in the open air.

Jim Phelan was there, and the men were all seated as close as the rickety benches would allow.

"Well, men," said O'Brien, "I dare say I could guess what you were talking of. Did any of you ever hear of anything like it until now?--I mean, did any of you ever hear that the ghost of this man Fahey had been seen in the neighbourhood before?"

Several men answered in the negative; the others shook their heads.

O'Brien then rehearsed all he had gathered from Phelan of Fahey, and asked the others if they could add anything to the tale.

At this they shook their heads also. He then inquired if among them they could find an explanation. But this produced no better result. He felt baffled, discouraged. He had not counted on learning much, but he had expected to gather something.

After a stay of some time he left the "Blue Anchor" with nothing added to his store of facts or surmises. During the time he had sat there and smoked his cigar, he had heard much of what he knew repeated over and over again, with the wearying garrulity of those into whose lives few events of varied interest enter.

The storm was raging still abroad, although the violence of the wind had considerably abated. The sky was now strewn with shattered, rugged clouds, wreckage of the gale. Here and there groups of pale stars shone out in the dull sky. The night was not dark. No moon shone, but a pale blue radiance filled the clefts and chasms between the clouds, and fringed their rugged edges with hues of dull steel.

By this time the tide was falling. The sea, even in the bay, had been lashed into fury, and was breaking in sheets over the Storm Wall, under the partial shelter of which O'Brien walked towards the "Strand Hotel."

He kept his head bent low, in order to avoid the flying spray. On his right was the Storm Wall, with the bay beyond. On the left the village, with its few scattered lights. Kilcash Bay made an irregular shallow bow on the innermost side, and along this bow from one end to the other of it the village was built. As became a house of such importance as the "Blue Anchor," it stood near the middle of the bow, not on the main road, but on a little narrow road running at right angles to the Storm Wall, and on which were very few houses. At the end of this by-road, and to the right facing the sea, lay the cottages of the village. These were owned chiefly by fishermen, and were let to visitors in the summer, while the families of the fishermen retired to some other shelter, situate visitors never knew exactly where. To the left stood the more ambitious half of the village. Here were the few shops and two-storey houses it contained. At the further end of this left-hand half stood the "Strand Hotel," the most imposing-looking house in the place, and the point towards which Jerry O'Brien was now making his way in the lee of the wave-beaten wall.

O'Brien did not look at his watch before leaving the "Blue Anchor," but he knew it was about nine o'clock. At such an hour, in such a season of the year, the village was usually plunged in darkness, except for the lights in the one hotel and the one public-house. The few shops were never in the winter open after seven, and not ten in a hundred of the inhabitants were out of bed at nine o'clock. But owing to the story which Jim Phelan had brought back from the downs that day, this was not considered an ordinary night, and there were more lights than usual twinkling in the houses still.

But as O'Brien forged his way laboriously forward, under the protection afforded by the wall, he became aware that one of the shops was not only open, but doing business too, at this advanced hour of night.

Between O'Brien and the shop were a broad road and a little garden--for all the houses and cottages, including those with shops, had gardens in front.

O'Brien's mind was not busy at the moment, and out of idleness, rather than curiosity, he kept his eyes on the open door of the shop as he drew near and passed it.

Before he had gone beyond the point at which he could command a view of it without turning his head back inconveniently, some one came out of the shop, the door closed, and all was dark.

Here a severe gust of wind almost carried off O'Brien's hat, and he paused a moment to pull it down over his brows, and wait until the spray of a wave, which had just climbed the wall and sprung over it, fell on the road in front. Partly to shield his face from the wind, and partly out of a desire to try and make out what kind of being had the daring to come with custom to M'Grath's at such an unusual hour, he kept his face turned inland, and looked at the figure which had emerged from the shop. The form was that of a man--a man of the average, or perhaps slightly over the average height--bulky, or, rather, bulged--no, not bulky, but bulged--irregular--stooped, stooped as though he carried a bundle, or was very old, or was a hunchback. The man was going on at a quick pace in the direction of the hotel.

"He can't be staying at the 'Strand,'" thought O'Brien. "I am the only visitor at the 'Strand.' And yet where can he be going? No person living in the village would dream of knocking up M'Grath at such an hour except in a matter of life and death, and M'Grath doesn't sell drugs."

They were now getting near the end of the houses. The "Strand" was the last building in the village. The garden at its rear climbed partly up the slope of the downs. The nearest dwelling-place beyond the hotel was Kilcash House, the late Mr. Davenport's home. That house stood a mile back from the cliff, and the shortest line from it to the sea would bring one to the Black Rock.

As O'Brien saw the man pass the last house of the terrace and approach the hotel, he watched no longer, but turned his eyes out for one last look at the sea, with the reflection, "There is nowhere else for him but the 'Strand'--unless," he thought, with a smile, "he is going to visit our old friend Fahey at the Black Rock. A nice quiet place to spend an evening like this would be the Puffing Hole."

He shuddered. Even here, two miles away from it, and within a few yards of his comfortable room, with lamps and a fire, and absolute security from the sea, it was not possible to think of that awful Hole unmoved. Although the tide was receding, it was higher than when he and Jim Phelan had been at the Rock. The water had then been flung up a hundred feet into the air. Now, no doubt, it was mounting a hundred and fifty feet--ay, two hundred feet, in a solid, unbroken, bent column! What a hideous fate it would be to stand down on that fatal rock and, with the certainty of immediate destruction, watch that dire column mount up into the air! Ugh! It wasn't a thing to think of just now. He had had enough of the sea and storm for one day. He'd go in and turn up the lamps, and fit himself into an easy-chair in front of the fire, and mix a tumbler of punch and smoke a cigar, and forget all about the confounded sea, except that it was out here foaming and fuming away, wholly unable to get at him.

He looked towards the hotel. The man who had come out of M'Grath's ought by this time to have got within its hospitable walls. No one was to be seen stirring near it.

"Ah, as I thought!" mused O'Brien complaisantly. "But what can they have wanted from M'Grath's at the 'Strand' at this hour of the night? And now that I think of it, the whole male force attached to the house in any capacity consists of old Billy Coyne, the stable man, and myself. I've not been in M'Grath's buying things--that is, at least, not with my knowledge and consent. But then this is a queer place, where queer things happen now and then."

He turned to cross the road, but was again brought to a standstill by a fierce gust of wind and dash of spray. While he was holding on his hat, his face was turned towards the pathway leading to the downs high above. He shook the spray off him, and was on the point of moving away when his eyes caught something moving upward and forward on that path. What the object was he could not determine, for the light was poor and uncertain, and the distance considerable. One moment he thought it was a pony; the next it seemed to resemble a human being. He stood still a minute or two, long enough to make sure he could not come to a conclusion, as the thing continued to recede and the light did not improve.

He shrugged his shoulders. The affair was not of the least moment to him. He crossed the road and entered the hotel. He was in the act of taking off his overcoat in the hall when he caught sight of old Billy Coyne, who in the winter acted as handy man about the place, and discharged now and then the functions of waiter and boots.

"Who came in just now, Billy?" he asked.

"Sorrow a soul, sir," answered the old man, helping O'Brien with the coat.

"I mean, who was the man that came out of M'Grath's carrying a bundle on his back?"

"Some one carrying a bundle on his back?" queried the man in respectful perplexity.

"Yes," said O'Brien, sharply.

He was annoyed at what he considered the stupidity of Coyne.

"The yard door is locked this hour, and no one could come in that way. Ever since you went out, sir, I've been about here; and although the sea and the wind are high, I am used to them, and no one could, and no one did, come in. Nobody," added Coyne, emphatically, "crossed that threshold"--pointing to the front doorway--"since you went out, sir, until you yourself crossed it this minute. If you saw anything"--mysteriously--"for goodness sake don't say a word about it, or you'll have the missus and Mary in dread of their lives, if they don't die of the fright. Did you see it come in?"

O'Brien dropped his brows a little over his eyes, and looked at the man. Coyne did not seem as though he had been drinking or asleep.

"Go and ask Mrs. Carey and Mary, and when you are coming back, bring me some whisky and hot water."

When Coyne reappeared it was with the full assurance that neither Mrs. Carey, the landlady, nor Mary, the housemaid, had seen or heard any one enter the house between Jerry's leaving it and his return just now.

What was Jerry to make of this? There was not the shadow of a doubt that a man had come out of M'Grath's with a bundle of some kind on his back. He had watched that man with a little curiosity until he was quite sure he had no other cover to go to but the hotel. Then came a time when his attention was taken off the figure and given to the sea. No man was to be seen when he turned round, but something was going up the path to the downs. That something must have been the man he had seen leave M'Grath's. Nothing could be plainer than that. But who in the name of all that was mysterious could think of knocking at M'Grath's, and then ascend the downs with a heavy bundle on such a night? There was no house for several miles in the direction taken by the man with the bundle except the residence of the late Mr. Davenport, and that was two miles off.

Fahey, or----

Nonsense! This rubbish about ghosts was unworthy of a moment's consideration. It was puerile, old-womanish, contemptible. Besides, ghosts did not, as far as he knew, knock up the proprietor of a general shop and buy or any way carry away heavy bundles on their backs. He must not waste time with such rubbish again.

But what about Fahey? Fahey was more of a ghost than his own ghost. Either Fahey was dead or he was not. To jump into the Puffing Hole, was, every one said, certain death. Fahey had been seen to jump into the Puffing Hole--seen by two witnesses incapable of making a mistake in the matter. The word of one man in a case of this kind would be open to doubt, but two men said they saw Fahey jump into the Puffing Hole years ago. That very day he (O'Brien) had seen a figure which Jim Phelan recognised as that of Fahey, and that figure had vanished near the hideous caldron, but without having time to get near it, and in face of the fact that there was not another means of accounting for its disappearance.

What on earth could he make of this? And now here was a mysterious figure getting a shop opened at night, and in the face of a fierce storm starting over the downs in the direction of the Black Rock.

But the whole thing wasn't worth thinking of. What was it to him if Fahey's ghost were fictitious or real, or if Fahey were alive or dead? He'd put the whole thing from him, and think of where exactly he should build that house for Madge.

Next morning, before starting for Kilbarry, he took a stroll and turned into M'Grath's shop to buy a strap for his rugs. They sold everything at M'Grath's--twine, and candles, and bread, and gunpowder, and kettles, and vinegar, and calico, and tea, and butter, and sweetmeats, and fishing-hooks, and hoops, and wooden spades, and white lead, and garden seeds, and flowers of sulphur, and dried haddock, and camp-stools, and crockery-ware, and pious pictures, and wall-hooks, and penny bugles, and cod-liver oil, and bran, and a thousand other things--to make a list of which would puzzle the most experienced auctioneer or valuer.

"You had a late customer last night," said O'Brien, when he had selected the strap.

"Yes, sir. He came to buy a few articles he wanted. He said that in my father's time he often bought things in this shop, and that as he was passing through the village late he wanted to see this place again for the sake of old times."

"How long is it since he was here, did he say?"

"Thirty-seven years since he saw Kilcash."

"Then he is not young."

"Bless you, no, Mr. O'Brien! He's seventy-five, and with a bad cough too; and to think of him walking a night like last night from this to Kilbarry, with such a load too!"

"Seventy-five--seventy-five!" muttered Jerry. "That's no good."

"Ay, seventy-five, and looked every day of it. I don't think the poor fellow is long for this world."

O'Brien left. A man of seventy-five did not, he thought, bear much on the case. The years were thirty or thirty-five too many.