It rained steadily from Monday afternoon till Thursday morning, and then, as if at the stroke of a great broom, the clouds broke up and were driven in piles over the hills, leaving the sky winter-blue and free; cloud shadow and sunshine chased one another over the land, and from the cliffs the sea lay foam-capped and in great meadows of different colour. It had blown half a gale on Tuesday night, and the sea was fretting from it still. Acres of tourmaline-coloured water showed where the "deeps" lay close in shore, and each glass-green roller came running in, capped with foam and shot through with sunlight till——

Boom!

A league-long burst of spray told of its death, and from far and near came the sound, the breathing of the coast, like the breathing of a leviathan in its sleep.

It was dark when the train from Dublin drew in at the station of Cloyne, and Mr. French and his companion found the outside car waiting for them in charge of Buck Slane.

Buck was a helper in the stable, a weedy-looking individual in leggings, with a high, piping voice, red-rimmed eyes, and an apologetic manner. When Buck spoke to you on any subject, he seemed to be apologising for it, as though it were something that had to be mentioned or spoken about against his will.

"Where's Moriarty, and why didn't he come with the car?" asked Mr. French.

"Plaze, sorr," said Buck, "Moriarty's stuck in the stable."

"Stuck in the where?"

"In the stable, sorr—wid the horses. He hasn't left them a minit since Monday afternoon, and he tould me to harness the mare and stick her in the car and come to the station."

"All right," said French. "Hop up, Dashwood. Here, get the luggage on board, Buck, and I'll hold the mare."

A couple of minutes later they were on the road to Drumgool under the light of a winter moon. It was the road along which Mr. Dashwood had driven that morning with Miss Grimshaw, when, after breakfast at the Station Inn, he had accompanied her to Drumgool House. Everything on the road recalled her in that poignant language used by inanimate things when they remind us of the people we love.

He had spoken no word about her to French since that conversation in the smoking-room of the Shelbourne Hotel, and French had spoken no word to him. French, having declared his half-formed intention to "ask" her himself, had apparently dismissed her from his mind. I doubt if ever a lover found himself in a more peculiar and difficult position than that which was beginning to surround Mr. Dashwood. French brought into this affair a mixture of card-room and commercial honesty that was very embarrassing to an ordinary rival.

He had said in substance: "Here's a girl. You're in love with her. I'm not going to do a mean thing. I'm going to take you to my house and put you together, so that you may know more of each other. If she likes you better than me, you can have her. If she likes me better than you, you can't. I give you just the same chance as I have myself, and I expect you to play the game."

There was a splendid self-confidence in the proposition which made it not altogether a complimentary one, but there was also a fine open-heartedness, an absence of that essential malice of love, which made it less a proposition than a law of conduct with all sorts of clauses.

Generous in a love affair! Men may be generous in sharing money, in sharing fame, in sharing the chance of death, but in sharing the chance of love—ah! that's a very different thing. The most extreme Socialist has never dared to propound such a community of interests, and yet here was a simple Irish gentleman not propounding the idea, but putting it in practice, and as fine deeds are the fathers of fine thoughts, here was an ingenuous lover, in the form of Mr. Dashwood, determining to play the game and take no advantage of French.

To complete the matter, here was Miss Grimshaw, who had been apprised of the coming of Mr. Dashwood as a guest, by wire, completing the preparations for the reception of the two gentlemen, and with, in her heart, an equally kindly feeling for each.

Doolan had caught a large lobster the day before, "blown up on the strand," and this, coral-red and curled on a dish, flanked a round of cold spiced beef on the supper-table. A bright fire was burning in the grate; the light of the lamps shone, reflected by the ruby of port and claret in the decanters on the sideboard; the potatoes, boiled in their jackets, were being kept hot in the oven; and everything was in readiness for the expected travellers, who were late.

As Miss Grimshaw sat by the fire she could hear the faint boom of the sea. To know desolation and the blessing of a visit, you must live in the extreme west of Ireland, which, I take it, is the extreme outside edge of European civilisation; and after three days of rain, three days of reading the day-before-yesterday's Freeman's Journal, and "Mrs. Brown's 'Oliday Outings," Miss Grimshaw was in the frame of mind to receive a visitor, more especially when that visitor took the form of Bobby Dashwood.

Bobby and his irresponsibilities had found a place in her heart—not the place that women keep for lovers, but the place they keep for cats, stray dogs, and other people's children; a place, all the same, that opens into the real place, an ante-room where, if a man can obtain a footing, he has a chance of being shown into the boudoir. Unfortunately for Bobby, French had a place there, too; so had Norah, the cat, and Effie—quite an extraordinary collection of people and animals, but only two men—French and Mr. Dashwood.

"Here they are, miss," cried Norah, popping her head in at the door, "the car's comin' up the dhrive!"

Miss Grimshaw rose from the fire, and came out into the hall.

She saw the car through the open door, and the lamps blazing, and next moment she was shaking hands with Bobby Dashwood.

"Where's Mr. French?" asked the girl.

"He jumped down at the stable entrance," said Mr. Dashwood, wriggling out of his greatcoat, "and went to see the horses. He asked me to come in and tell you."

She led the way into the dining-room.

"You've got the same bedroom that you had before," said she—"the one with the glimpse of the sea. Mrs. Driscoll has put a fire there, and they've been airing sheets and things all day, so you need not be afraid of catching cold. Hasn't the weather been awful?"

"Awful!" said Mr. Dashwood.

"You met Mr. French in Dublin, I suppose?" said the girl.

"Yes, I met him in Dublin. Funny, wasn't it? We were staying at the same hotel, and I was coming down here, and he invited me to stay with him."

He stood with his back to the fire, warming himself and glancing about the comfortable room, and there was something in his manner that Miss Grimshaw could not quite make out—an almost imperceptible stiffness, a want of "spring." It was as though he were on his guard.

"Was it raining in Dublin?"

"Yes, most of the time. And I suppose you've been having it pretty bad here?"

"Awful."

She was dying to ask him why he had come over from England at this season of the year; why he had come down here. Who can tell, but in her heart she knew the reason perfectly, and, knowing it, felt perplexed with his strange manner and stiffness?

They talked on indifferent matters—Effie and so forth—till French came in. He had interviewed Moriarty, and he was full of the business of the horses; and, strange to say, with the entrance of French Mr. Dashwood's manner completely changed. His stiffness vanished, and he became his old, irresponsible, joyous self again.

"Think of it! The blackguards!" said Mr. French as he carved the round of beef. "Coming to try their tricks on the horses! Moriarty hasn't left his eye off Garryowen since I left, begad! I'll pension him for life if I win the City and Sub. But think of the black-heartedness of it!"

He went into the details we know, Susie Gallagher's "information," and the fact that it was almost certain Black Larry would try the business that night.

Mr. Dashwood's eyes sparkled as he listened.

"What are you going to do?" he asked.

"Catch him if I can," said French. "There mustn't be any shooting. I don't want any police business, for then I'd be held as a witness at the assizes. But if I catch him, I'll give him something to remember to-night by, and let him go."

"You'll let me help?" said Bobby.

"Of course I'll let you help. And so it was Susie Gallagher brought the news?"

"Yes," said Miss Grimshaw, "I told old Mrs. Moriarty—you remember that day you took me to see her?—well, I told her to let me know if she heard of any mischief. I guess she kept her ears open, for I gave her a shilling, and promised her five if she got any information. You'll have to pay that."

French chuckled.

"Ever since you've entered the house," said he, "you've been putting things straight, and saving us all from ourselves. Look here, now," said Mr. French, resting his elbow on the table and checking off the items with the index finger of his right hand on the fingers of his left. "You've helped to fix the bailiff. That's Number 1."

Mr. Dashwood applauded, and Mr. French continued.

"You put old Kate Moriarty on the scent of these scoundrels. That's Number 2. You put Effie on her legs, and you've freed the house of Dick Giveen. That's Number 3. And you put into my head what to do about Garryowen. That's Number 4."

"And now," said Miss Grimshaw, "I'm going to bed, and to leave you two to your pipes. And that's Number 5. I suppose you will sit up to catch this person?"

"We will," said French.