When Lavirotte returned to consciousness, the day after the encounter on the road, he seemed to have but a hazy notion of what had occurred, and yet to have known that caution was necessary. He found one of the women of the house seated in the room. He asked her had he been hurt, and how he had been hurt. She said: "I don't exactly know. Mr. O'Donnell and you came here together. He is hurt, too." "Much?" "His shoulder is cut, I believe. They tell me he is not very bad. Maybe you know something about it?" "My head is hurt," he said, "and I cannot remember well. There is no danger he will die, is there?" "The doctor says no, but that he'll want good caring." Then for a long time Lavirotte was silent. "What does Eugene say about it?" he asked at length. "Does he know how he was hurt or how I was hurt?" "They did not tell me. I do not know." "Will you take my compliments to Mr. O'Donnell, and ask him if he remembers what happened?" "I don't think I'd get much for my trouble if I did. The police have been here already trying to find out about the matter, and Mr. O'Donnell refused to tell them anything." "Refused to tell them anything! Dear Eugene! dearest Eugene. Most loyal of friends! I always loved him." Then there was another long interval of silence. "Who is with my dear friend Eugene?" "I don't know who is with him now. His father and mother were here early in the day. They have bad news I am told. Some great man in Dublin is closed." "Some great man in Dublin. Did you hear his name?" "No; but they say it will be very bad for old Mr. O'Donnell." "Will you ask Mr. Maher to come this way?" When the landlord entered, he said: "Who is the great man that has failed in Dublin?" "Mr. Vernon." "Ah, Mr. Vernon. So I guessed. This will be bad for the poor O'Donnells." "There are other things bad for the poor O'Donnells as well," said the landlord, bitterly. "I am sincerely sorry for my dear friends. You know, Mr. Maher, they are the dearest friends I have on earth." "Ah!" cried the other sarcastically. "I must telegraph to London. Someone must write the telegram for me." "I will," said the landlord, grudgingly. "You are always so kind," said the invalid; "always so kind! You Irish are, I believe, the kindest-hearted race in all the world." "And sometimes we get nice pay for our pains." Then the telegram to Dora Harrington was written. "Have Mr. and Mrs. O'Donnell left, or are they with their son yet?" "Mr. O'Donnell is gone back to Rathclare. Mrs. O'Donnell is with Mr. Eugene. It's a sorrowful business." "And nobody else?" "Eh?" "And there is nobody else with Mr. Eugene O'Donnell?" "I say it's a sorrowful business." "Dreadful. I am profoundly sorry." "Eh?" "A sorrowful business, I say, about the failure of the bank." "Eh?" "My dear Maher, you are growing deaf. You ought to see to this matter at once. Dr. O'Malley is a very clever man. You ought to mention the matter to him." "That'll do, now. You're bad, and I don't want to say anything to you. But my ears are wide enough to hear what they say." "Who are they that say, and what do they say?" "They say that you stabbed Mr. Eugene O'Donnell, one of the pleasantest gentlemen that ever put a foot in Glengowra." "But he himself denies it." "He doesn't." "When the police came he would not tell them anything." "More fool he! But there, there--I won't say any more. This is against Dr. O'Malley's orders. He said you were not to be allowed to speak, or excite yourself. You may say what you like now, Mr. Lavirotte; I'll say no more. I'll obey Dr. O'Malley." "One more question and I have done. Is there anyone but Mrs. O'Donnell with Eugene?" "Yes, Miss Creagh." "Thanks; I am very much obliged to you. I will trouble you no more now." When the servant returned to the room, he said to her: "What a kind man your master is. Notwithstanding his belief that I made an attack upon Mr. Eugene O'Donnell, he was good enough to write a telegram for me, and to tell me some of the town gossip. I hear that Miss Creagh is in the sick room. I want you to do me a great favour, if you please. Take my compliments to Miss Creagh, and say I would feel greatly obliged if she would favour me with a few moments' conversation." The attendant drew herself up. "It's not likely," she said, "Miss Creagh would come near you. When I was coming up, Mr. Maher told me you were not to talk or excite yourself." "Do as I tell you, woman," he said sharply, "or I will get up out of this bed and dash myself out of the window, and you will be the cause of my death, and have to answer for it." The servant was cowed. She rose timidly and left the room. Almost immediately the door reopened, and Ellen Creagh entered, followed by the servant. Her pallor was now gone, and although her cheeks and lips had not the depth of bloom usually on them, she looked nearly her own self. She smiled faintly as she approached the bed on which Lavirotte lay. "You wish to speak to me, and I have come." "Yes," he said, "I wish to speak to you. May it be with you alone?" He looked at the servant in the doorway. She motioned the servant to withdraw, and then came close to the bed. "Miss Creagh," he said, "they tell me he will get better. They tell me he has given no account of what took place last night to--the police. Has he told you what occurred?" "He has," she said; "to me, and to me only. He said to his mother that the secret was one concerning three only." "He and I being two, and you the third?" "Yes," she said. "What do you wish me to do?" "First of all to forgive me, if you can." "I forgive you freely. He says you must have been mad." "I was," he said, "stark, raving mad. I was not responsible for what I did. I am in the most grievous despair about the matter." "He is sorry he injured you; but it was in self-defence." "He injure me! Not he. What put that into his mind? I injured him. I will not pain you by telling you what I did. It was not I did it; it was a maniac, a demon. You must tell him quickly he did not injure me. In self-defence, in trying to guard himself against an accursed madman, he sought to throw me. We both fell close to a rock at the end of the cove road, and my head struck the rock. You will tell him this, will you not, Miss Creagh? It will relieve his mind. It will relieve the mind of my dear friend, my dearest Eugene." "He will be glad to hear he did not do it, but sorry to know you are so much hurt. He does not blame you at all. He says his great anxiety to be up is that he may come to you and shake your hand." The tears stood in Lavirotte's eyes. "God bless my boy," he cried. "God bless my boy, Eugene. I am not worthy to know him. I am not worthy to know you. I am not worthy to live. I am not fit to die. I am an outcast from earth, from heaven, and from hell." "Just before I left him to come and see you"--the young girl's colour heightened slightly--"I took his hand to say good-bye to him, even for this little time," she smiled. "I took his hand in mine; in this hand," holding out her right. "He said to me, 'You will tell Lavirotte I am sorry I cannot shake his hand.'" She stretched out her right hand to his right hand lying on the counterpane. "If I take your hand now, it will be the nearest thing to touching his." "Yes," said Lavirotte eagerly, "it will be touching a hand that is dearer to him than his own." He took the warm white hand in his, and raised it to his lips reverentially. "Now, the favour I have to ask of you is this: it far exceeds in magnitude the one I first thought of asking you." "What is it?" she said, briskly. "I am sure I shall be able to grant it." "You will ask him to let me be his best man at your wedding." Again the young girl coloured. "I will, if you wish it, and I am sure he will consent." "Will you ask him, for then I shall have something to say to you?" She left the room and returned in a few minutes. "Nothing will give him greater pleasure. He is delighted at the notion. He would have asked you only----" Here she paused. "I understand," he said. "Only for what occurred once between you and me. I am told there is bad news, the worst news, of Vernon and Son to-day. Do you believe in fate?" "I do not believe in fate." "I do," he said, "implicitly. I believe it was fated that you and I should never be more than friends, and that you and he should be everything to one another. And now fate appears to me in a new aspect. There is a chance--a very slender one, I admit--nay, a wonderful, foolish chance that I may one day come into some money, not in the ordinary way of succession, but by a romantic event. I will be perfectly frank with you. I will make a confession to you which I have made to no one else here. It will damage me more in your opinion than it could in the opinion of anyone else living. When I said those words to you that day in the boat, I was engaged to be married to someone now in London." The girl started. "You--you were not serious that day, you know. You only meant to pay me a compliment." "No, no," the wounded man cried quickly. "I meant ten thousand times more than I said. But there--let us drop that subject for ever. I am only too glad to think of it no more. I offered you my hand when it was not mine to give, and when you promised to give yours to another I tried to kill him. No man could have been baser or more unworthy than I. And yet there is a use in my baseness, for has it not given him an opportunity of forgiving me--fine-hearted gentleman as he is--and you of showing me that you are the noblest as well as the most beautiful woman alive?" "You are too hard upon yourself, and too generous to--us," the girl said, colouring. "I must not stay if you will talk in this fashion." "Yes, stay by all means," he said, "for I have not done speaking yet. I will say no more on that topic. I have another secret to tell you. It will take some time. It is not unpleasant. It is, in fact, connected with the only property I own, and the possible consequence of my owning it. It is situated in London. It is only the tower of an old church--St. Prisca's, in Porter Street, by the Thames. I own that tower. It was built many hundred years ago. The rest of the church has been pulled down----" "Here is Dr. O'Malley," said the girl. "Miss Creagh," cried the doctor in astonishment. "You here!"