after sir felix had gone off, profuse in his apologies, and anathematizing mr. fury's zeal, lady o'gara went to a desk in the corner of the drawing-room, a sheraton desk which she did not often use. she found a tiny key and unlocked a little cupboard door between the pigeon-holes. she felt about the back of one of the three little drawers it contained and brought out a sliding well, one of the innocent secret receptacles which are so easily discovered by any one who has the clue. she drew out a little bundle of yellow papers from it—newspaper cuttings. these she took to the lamp and proceeded to read with great care.

once or twice she knitted her fair brows over something as she read; but, on the whole, she seemed satisfied as she put the papers back into their secret place, locked the little door and put away the key.

then she remembered that she had not given patsy his orders.

she went to sir shawn's office-room and wrote them out. while she put the second one in its envelope patsy tapped at the door and came in, closing it carefully behind him.

"no wan 'ud be expectin' the master home from the wood o' the hare yet," he said. "'tis a good step an' sir john fitzgerald would be very sorry to part with him after he'd carried him in for his lunch. maybe 'tis staying to dinner he'd be."

lady o'gara looked at her watch.

"it's quite early," she said; "not much after six."

"'tis a dark night," said patsy. "maybe 'tis the way they'll be persuadin' him to wait till the moon rises. sorra a bit she'll show her face till nine to-night."

mary o'gara's heart sank. she knew that patsy was nervous.

"he may come at any moment," she said. "i don't think he'll wait for the rising of the moon."

"it isn't like the troubled times," said patsy, "an' you listenin' here, an' me listenin' by the corner o' the stable-yard where the wind brings the sounds from the bog-road whin 'tis in that quarter. your ladyship had great courage. an' look at all you must ha' went through whin we was at the war!"

he looked compassionately at her as he went towards the door.

"i'll be sendin' a boy wid this message," he said. "or maybe georgie an' me would be steppin' down there. it's lonesome for the child to be sittin' over his books all day whin i'm busy."

he opened the door, looked into the empty hall and came back.

"i wouldn't be troublin' the master wid them ould stories," he said.

"didn't i tell my story fair!"

"you did, patsy. there were some things in it were not in the evidence you gave at the time."

"see that now! t'ould mimiry of me's goin'. still, there wasn't much differ?"

there was some anxiety in his voice as he asked the question.

"nothing much. you said nothing long ago of running towards the upper road after sir shawn."

"sure where else would i be runnin' to? it isn't the lower road i'd be takin'—now is it your ladyship! it wouldn't be likely."

"i suppose it wouldn't," she said, slightly smiling.

"i remember it like as if it was yesterday, the sound of the horse's hoofs climbin' and then the clatter that broke out on the lower road whin spitfire took the bit between his teeth an' bolted. i'll put the stopper on that villain's lies. i'd like to think the master wouldn't be troubled wid them."

"i'm afraid he'll have to hear them, patsy. sir felix was obliged to issue a summons. it might have been worse if sir felix had not been a friend."

"the divil shweep that man, fury," said patsy with ferocity. "if he hadn't been a busy-body an' stirrer-up of trouble, he'd have drowned that villain in a bog-hole."

he went off, treading delicately on his toes, which was his way of showing sympathetic respect, and lady o'gara returned to the drawing-room.

she was very uneasy. she tried reading, but her thoughts came between her and the page. writing was no more helpful. she went to the piano. music at least, if it did not soothe her, would prevent her straining her ears in listening for sounds outside.

the butler came and took away the tea-things, made up the fire and departed in the noiseless way of the trained servant. her hands on the keys broke unconsciously into the solemn music of chopin's funeral march. she took her hands off the piano with a shiver as she realized her choice and began something else, a mad, merry reel to which the feet could scarcely refrain from dancing. but her heart did not dance. the music fretted her, keeping her from listening. after a while she gave up the pretence of it and went back to the fireside, to the sofa on which she and shawn had sat side by side while she comforted him. she could have thought she felt the weight of his head on her shoulder, that she smelt the peaty smell of his home-spuns. he would be disturbed, poor shawn, by what she had to tell him. it would be an intolerable ordeal if he should be dragged to the petty sessions court to refute the preposterous charge of being concerned in the death of the man he had loved more than a brother.. poor shawn! she listened. was that the sound of a horse coming? he would be so disturbed!

it was only the wind that was getting up. she drew her work-table to her and took out a pair of shawn's stockings that needed darning. margaret mckeon's eyes had been failing of late, and lady o'gara had taken on joyfully the mending of her husband's things. her darning was a thing of beauty. she had said it soothed her when sir shawn would have taken the stocking from her because it tired her dear eyes.

nothing could have seemed quieter than the figure of the lady sitting mending stockings by rosy lamplight. she had put on her spectacles. terry had cried out in dismay when he had first seen her wear them, and she had laughed and put them away; her beautiful eyes were really rather short-sighted and she had never spared them.

but while she sat so quietly she was gripped by more terrors than one. she was trying to keep down the thought, the question, that would return no matter how she strove to push it away—had she been told all the truth about terence comerford's death?

there had always been things that puzzled her, things shawn had said under the stress of emotion, and when he talked in sleep. there had been a night when he had cried out:

"my god, he should not have laughed. if he had wanted to live he should not have laughed. when he laughed i felt i must kill him."

she had wakened him up, telling him he had had a nightmare and had thought no more about it. there were other things he had said in the stress of mental sufferings. she began to piece them together, to make a whole of them, in the light of this horrible accusation. and—patsy had been lying, had been ready to lie more if necessary. patsy was a truthful person. conceivably he would not have lied unless there was a reason for it, unless there was something to conceal.

she got up at last, weary with her thoughts, and went upstairs to dress. before doing anything else she opened her window and leant out. it had come on to rain. she had known the beautiful strange sky was ominous of wet weather, although for a little time in the afternoon it had seemed inclined to freeze. the heavy raindrops were falling like the pattering of feet. a wind got up and shook the trees. she said to herself that she would not fancy she heard the horse's hoofs in the distance. when they were coming she would have no doubt.

she dressed herself finely, or she permitted margaret mckeon to dress her, in a golden brown dress which her husband had admired. through the transparent stuff that draped the corsage modestly her warm white shoulders gleamed. her arms were very beautiful. she remembered as she sat in front of the glass, while the maid dressed her hair, that her husband had said she was more beautiful than the girl he had married.

she went back to the drawing-room where shot lay, stretched on the skin-rug before the fire, now and again lifting his head to look at her. the poms were in their baskets either side of the fireplace. it was very quiet. not a sound disturbed the silence of the room beyond the ticking of the clock over the mantelpiece and the purring and murmuring of the fire.

she had a book in her hand, but she did not read it. she was too concerned about real actual happenings for the book to keep her attention. she held it indeed so that she might seem to be reading if a servant came into the room. she wondered if the story of the tramp's charge against sir shawn had reached the kitchen. very probably it had. the police would know of it and from them it would spread to the village and the countryside. the people were insatiable of gossip, especially where their "betters" were involved. probably the tramp—baker, was it?—poor susan's husband and georgie's father—had made the statement at every place where he had satisfied his thirst. what a horrid thing to have happened! how would shawn take the accusation? of course it was absurd—nevertheless it was intolerable.

reilly came in presently and asked if her ladyship would have dinner at the usual hour. it still wanted a quarter of the hour—eight o'clock.

she answered in the affirmative. shawn was always vexed if she waited for him when he was late, wishing she would remember that he might be detained by twenty things. it would be something to do and would suspend for a while the listening which made her head ache. she hated these hours of listening. of late years she had forgotten to be nervous when sir shawn was not in good time. he had said that he would not give her the habit of his punctual return lest a chance unpunctuality should terrify her. to-night she had only gone back to the listening because shawn was riding mustapha. besides, the news she had to give him had upset her nerves out of their usual tranquil course.

the rain beat hard against the windows. she hoped shawn was not crossing the bog in that rainstorm. some horses hated the wind and the rain and would not face them. it would be so terribly easy for mustapha if he swung round or reared to topple over where the bog-pools lay dark and silent below the road, on either side.

a thought came to her with some sense of companionship that patsy kenny was doubtless listening round the corner of the stables for the sound of mustapha's hoofs, coming closer and closer. she had thought she heard them so often without hearing them. before she came down the stairs to dinner, she had turned into the private chapel to say her night-prayers, praying for her beloved ones, and for all the world; and as she knelt there in the dimness she had been almost certain she heard mustapha come. now, sitting by the drawing-room fire, the river of prayer went flowing through her heart, half articulate, broken into by the effort of listening that might become something tense and aching.

the dinner gong began, rising to a roar and falling away again. she smiled as she stood up, saying to herself that reilly sounded the gong with a sense of the climax.

as she stood up the poms bristled and shot suddenly barked and listened. he sat up on his haunches and threw back his head and howled. the dogs knew the master was out and that something vexed the mistress, and were uneasy.

as she passed across the hall, her golden-brown dress catching the light of the lamps, suddenly the hall door opened. there came in the wind and the rain. the lamps flared. patsy kenny stood in the doorway. he was very wet. as he took off his hat mechanically the rain dripped from it. his hair was plastered down on his face and the rain was in his eyes. he was panting as though he had run very hard.

"the master's comin'," he said with a sound like a sob. "he's not kilt, though he's hurted. i'm telling you the truth, jewel. it was well there was a pig-fair in meelick to-morrow or he might have lain out all night. an' wasn't it the mercy o' god the cart didn't drive over him?"

"where is he?" she asked, going to the door and peering out into the darkness. "where is he?"

"he's comin'. they're carryin' him on the tail-board o' the cart. he's not kilt. did ye ever know your poor patsy to decave you yet? i ran ahead lest ye'd die wid the fright. here, hould a light, you."

he spoke to reilly, who had never been spoken to so unceremoniously in the whole course of his professional career. the hall was full of the servants by this time, peering and pushing from the inner hall with curious or disturbed faces.

reilly brought a lamp, more quickly than might have been expected of him. there was the measured tramp of men's feet and something came in sight as the lamplight streamed out on the wet ground.

"stand back!" lady o'gara said, pushing away the crowding servants with a gesture. "can they see, patsy?"

"they can see," said patsy. "god help you! but mind ye he's not kilt.

i'm goin' for the doctor. i won't be many minutes."

into the hall came tim murphy, the road-contractor and small farmer, who lived up a boreen from the bog. he was under the tailboard of the cart. behind was his son larry. there was a crowd of wet faces and tousled heads crowding in the dark looking into the hall.

the men were carrying the silent figure of sir shawn o'gara, hatless, his scarlet coat sodden and mud-stained, his eyes closed and his head fallen to one side.