l.'

'What!' cried he, 'is this the great head-centre, Donogan, I have read so
much of? and how is he here?'

Though Dick Kearney was not usually quick of apprehension, he was not
long here in guessing what the situation meant: it was clear enough that
Donogan, being a friend of Joe Atlee, had been harboured here as a safe
refuge. Of all places in the capital, none were so secure from the visits
of the police as the college; indeed, it would have been no small hazard
for the public force to have invaded these precincts. Calculating therefore
that Kearney was little likely to leave Kilgobbin at present, Atlee had
installed his friend in Dick's quarters. The indiscretion was a grave
one; in fact, there was nothing--even to expulsion itself--might not have
followed on discovery.

'So like him! so like him!' was all he could mutter, as he arose and walked
about the room.

While he thus mused, he turned into Atlee's bedroom, and at once it
appeared why Mr. Donogan had been accommodated in his room. Atlee's was
perfectly destitute of everything: bed, chest of drawers, dressing-table,
chair, and bath were all gone. The sole object in the chamber was a coarse
print of a well-known informer of the year '98, 'Jemmy O'Brien,'
under whose portrait was written, in Atlee's hand, 'Bought in at
fourpence-halfpenny, at the general sale, in affectionate remembrance of
his virtues, by one who feels himself to be a relative.--J.A.' Kearney tore
down the picture in passion, and stamped upon it; indeed, his indignation
with his chum had now passed all bounds of restraint.

'So like him in everything!' again burst from him in utter bitterness.

Having thus satisfied himself that he had read the incident aright, he
returned to the sitting-room, and at once decided that he would leave
Donogan to his rest till morning.

'It will be time enough then to decide what is to be done,' thought he.

He then proceeded to relight the fire, and drawing a sofa near, he wrapped
himself in a railway-rug, and lay down to sleep. For a long time he could
not compose himself to slumber: he thought of Nina and her wiles--ay, they
were wiles; he saw them plainly enough. It was true he was no prize--no
'catch,' as they call it--to angle for, and such a girl as she was could
easily look higher; but still he might swell the list of those followers
she seemed to like to behold at her feet offering up every homage to
her beauty, even to their actual despair. And