The grand inquisition began that evening after dinner—Phyl did not appear at dinner, alleging a headache—and Rafferty, summoned to the library, had to stand whilst Pinckney, seated at the table with a pen in his hand and a sheet of paper before him, went into the business of accounts.

Mark how the unexpected occurs in life. Rafferty, who had been pilfering for years, selling garden produce and keeping the profits, robbing corn from the corn bin in the stable, poaching and selling birds and ground game to a dealer in Arranakilty, receiving illicit commissions and so forth, had on the death of his master shaken off all restraint and prepared for a campaign of open plunder. The very last thing he could have imagined was the sudden appearance of an American business man on the scene, armed with absolute power and possessing the eye of a hawk.

“Your master asked me just before he died to look after this estate,” began Pinckney; “in fact, he has appointed me to act as guardian to Miss Berknowles, so I just want to see how things stand. Now, to begin with the horses. I want to know everything about the stables during the last—shall we say—six months. Who supplies the corn and the hay and the straw?”

“I’ve been gettin’ some from Faulkner of Arranakilty, sor, and some from Doyle of Bally-brack.”

“Don’t you grow any horse food on the estate?”

“We don’t grow no corn, sor.”

“Well, hay and straw?”

“You can’t get straw, sor, widout you grow corn.”

“I know that—but how about hay—surely you grow lots of grass?”

“We graze the grass, sor.”

“Do you let the grazing?”

“Well, sor, it’s this way; the masther was never very shtrict about the grazin’; we puts some of the horses out to grass, ourselves, and we lets poor folk have a bit of grazin’ now and then for their cattle, though master was never after makin’ money from the estate—”

“Just so. Have you the receipted bills for the fodder during the last six months?”

“Yes, sor. The master always sent me wid the money to pay the bills.”

“You have got the receipts?”

“The which, sor?”

“The bills receipted.”

“Bills, sure, what’s the good of keepin’ bills, sor, when the money’s paid. I b’lave they’re somewhere in an ould crock in the stable, at laste that’s where I saw thim last.”

“Well,” said Pinckney, “you can fetch them for me to-morrow morning, and now let’s talk about the garden.”

Rafferty, not knowing what Pinckney might discover and so being unable to lie with confidence, had a very bad quarter of an hour over the garden.

Pinckney was not a man to press another unduly, nor was he a man to haggle about halfpence or worry servants over small peccadillos. He knew quite well that grooms are grooms, and will be so as long as men are men. He would never have bothered about little details had Rafferty been an ordinary servant. He recognised in Rafferty, not a servant to be dismissed or corrected, but an antagonist to be fought. It was the case of the dog and badger. Rafferty was Graft and all it implies, Pinckney was Straight Dealing. And Straight Dealing knew quite well that the only way to get Graft by the throat is to ferret out details, no matter how small.

So Rafferty was taken over details. He had to admit that he had “given away” some of the stuff from the garden and sold “a bit,” sending it up to Dublin for that purpose; but he was not to be caught.

“And the profits,” said Pinckney. “I suppose you handed them over to Mr. Berknowles?”

“No, sor; the master always tould me to keep any bit of money I might draa from anything I planted extra for me perkisites, that was the understandin’ I had with him.”

“And over the farmyard, I suppose anything you could make by selling any extra animals you planted was your perquisite?”

“Yes, sor.”

“Very well, Rafferty, that will do for to-night; get me those receipted bills to-morrow morning. Come here at ten o’clock and we will have another talk.”

Rafferty went off, feeling more comfortable in his mind.

The word Perquisites might be made to cover a multitude of sins, but he would not have been so easy if he had known that Mrs. Driscoll had been called up immediately after his departure. Mrs. Driscoll was one of those terrible people who say nothing yet see everything; for the last year and a half she had been watching Rafferty; knowing it to be quite useless to report what she knew to her easy-going master, she had, none the less, kept on watching. As a result, she was now able to bring up a hard fact, a small hard fact more valuable than worlds of ductile evidence. Rafferty had “nicked”—it was the lady’s expression—a brand-new lawn mower.

“I declare to God, sir, I don’t know what he has took, for me eyes can’t be everywhere, but I do know he’s took the mower.”

“Why did you not tell Miss Phyl?”

“I did, sir, and she only said, ‘Oh, there must be a mistake—what would he be doin’ with it,’ says she. ‘Sellin’ it,’ says I. ‘Nonsense,’ says she. You see, sir, Rafferty and she has always been hand in glove, what with the fishin’ and shootin’, and the horses and such like, and she won’t hear a word against him.”

Mrs. Driscoll had called Rafferty a sly devil—he was.

At eleven o’clock next morning, Phyl, crossing the stable yard with some sugar for the horses, met Rafferty. He was crying.

“Why, what on earth’s the matter, Rafferty?” asked the girl.

“I’ve got the shove, miss,” replied Rafferty, “after all me years of service, I’m put out to end me days in a ditch.”

“You mean you’re discharged!” she cried. “Was it Mr. Pinckney?”

“That’s him,” replied Rafferty. “Says he’s the masther of us all. ‘Out you get,’ says he, ‘or it’s I that’ll be callin’ a p’leeceman to put you,’ says he. Flung it in me face that I’d stolen a laan mower. Me that’s ben on the estate man and boy for forty year. A laan mower! Sure, Miss Phyl, what would I be doin’ with a laan mower?”

Phyl turned from him and ran to the house. Pinckney and Hennessey were seated in the library when the door burst open and in came Phyl. Her eyes were bright and her lips were pale.

“You told me you would keep all the servants,” said she. “Rafferty tells me you have dismissed him.”

“I should think I had,” said Pinckney lightly, and not gauging the mad disturbance of the other, “and it’s lucky for him I haven’t put him in prison.”

The word prison was all that was wanted to fire the mine. Pinckney stood for a moment aghast at the change in the girl.

“I hate you,” she cried, coming a step closer to him. “I loathe you—master of us all, are you? Dare to touch any one here and I’ll burn the house down with my own hands—you—you—”

She paused for want of breath, her chest heaving and her hands clenched.

Then Pinckney exploded.

The good old fiery Pinckney blood was up. Oh, without any manner of doubt our ancestors are still able to speak, and it was old Roderick Pinckney—“Pepper Pinckney” was his nickname—that blazed out now. It was also the fire of youth answering the fire of youth.

“Damn it!” he cried. “I’ve come here to do my best—I don’t care—keep who you want—be robbed if you like it—I’m off—” He caught up all the sheets of paper he had been covering with figures and tore them across.

“Beast!” cried Phyl.

She rushed from the room and upstairs like a mad creature. The bang of her bedroom door closed the incident.

“Now don’t be taking on so,” said Hennessey. “You’ve both of you lost your temper.”

“Lost my temper—maybe. I’m going all the same. Right back to the States. I’m off to Dublin by the next train and you’d better come and finish the business there. You’d better have her to stay with you in Dublin. I don’t want to see her again. Anyhow, we’ll settle all that later.”

“Maybe that’s the best,” said Hennessey. “My wife will look after her till she’s ready to go to the States—if she wants to.”

“Please God she doesn’t,” replied the other.

Phyl did not see Pinckney again. He went off to Dublin by the two-ten train with Hennessey, the latter promising to be back on the morrow to arrange things.