ht long ago when Spitfire, had run
away with Terence Comerford and thrown him. There had been blood on
the stones--blood and ... and ... brains. Horrible!

Sir Shawn had come level now with the long ray of light. At the edge
of it he paused. He could see plainly the interior of the room. The
unshaded lamp threw its bright light into every corner of the room. It
was comfortable and homelike. The furniture had belonged to the
previous tenant of the cottage and had been taken over by the estate.
It was good, old-fashioned furniture of a certain dignity. The
grandfather clock by the wall, the tall mahogany bookcase, the sofa and
chairs covered in red damask, were all good. There was a round convex
mirror above the fireplace and some pictures on the wall. The fire
burned brightly, toning down somewhat the hard unshaded lamplight.

A woman was sitting by the fire. She was in black with a white collar
and cuffs. Her hair was braided about her head. She sat with her
cheek resting in her hand, a pensive figure.

As though she knew she was being watched she started, turning her face
sharply towards the window. Evidently she had forgotten to pull down
the blind. As she turned, her face was in the full lamplight.

"My God!" Sir Shawn said to himself. "My God!"

He stood for a few seconds as though in pain, leaning against the
horse's side, before he went on. When he lifted his head darkness had
come again. The window had been shuttered.

CHAPTER IX

THE LETTER

From the pile of her letters one morning a month or so later, Lady
O'Gara picked out one and eyed it with distaste. It looked mean. The
envelope of flimsy paper was dirty. Some emanation came from the thing
like a warning of evil: she laid it on one side, away from her honest
respectable letters.

While she read through one or two of these the disreputable letter
awaiting her attention worried her. It was something importunate,
disagreeable, like a debased face thrust in at her door. With a sigh
she turned to it, to get it out of the way before she opened Terry's
letter, clean and dandyish, written on the delicate paper the Regiment
affected.

She held the thing gingerly by the edge, and, going away from the
table, she stood by the fire while she opened it. A smell of
turf-smoke came out of it,--nothing worse than that. Perhaps, after
all, it was only one of the many appeals for help which came to her
pretty constantly.

"HONOU