ke. He realised suddenly how
distant, vague, and yet how real a part the ideal of his youth had
played in his life and thoughts; how deep a niche, unknown to them
both, Asshlin had carved for himself. With a sense of loss altogether
disproportionate to circumstances, he turned again to the doctor.

"Yes, I should like another opinion," he said quickly. "The best we can
get--the best in Ireland. We can't get a man from town sooner than
to-morrow, and time is everything. I suppose Dublin is the place to
wire to? Not that I am disparaging you," he added. "I feel confident
you have done everything."

Gallagher smiled.

"Oh, I'm not taking offence. It's only human nature to think what you
do. I'll meet any one you like to name. But he'll say the same as me."

"And that is?"

"That he's done for." Gallagher lowered his voice. "He hasn't the
stamina to pull through, even if we could patch him up. He's been
undermining that big frame of his for the last ten years. No man
nowadays can sit up half the night drinking port without paying heavily
for it. Many a time, driving home from a late call, I've seen the light
in these windows at three in the morning."

Milbanke pulled out his watch.

"But these Dublin doctors," he said. "Tell me their names."

Gallagher pondered a moment.

"Well, there's Dowden-Gregg and Merrick," he said. "And of course
there's Molyneaux. Molyneaux is a magnificent surgeon. If any man in
Ireland can make a suggestion, he will. But of course his fee----"

Milbanke interrupted sharply.

"Molyneaux let it be," he said decisively. "Wire for him when you get
back to Carrigmore. Wire urgently. The expenses will be my affair. What
they may amount to is of no consideration."

A look of involuntary respect crossed Gallagher's face.

"I understand," he said. "I'll wire at once. And you can comfort
yourself that you'll have the best opinion in the country."

He nodded genially, the new considerations for Milbanke tinging his
usually careless manner; and with an inaudible word of farewell, turned
on his heel.

Once alone, Milbanke went in search of Clodagh. He suffered no small
trepidation at the thought of communicating his action to her, and he
bestowed much silent consideration upon the manner in which he should
couch his information. Failing to find her in the house, he wandered
out into the grounds. The rain had ceased, and a watery gleam of
sunshine was falling on the wet gravel of the drive. P