ular kind of stabs which Crossan anticipated.

Godfrey called on me the next morning in a white heat of righteous
indignation. He had received an answer to the letter which he wrote to
Conroy. Before showing it to me he insisted on my reading what he
called his statement of the case. It occupied four sheets of quarto
paper, closely type-written. It accused Bob Power and McNeice of
using the _Finola_ for smuggling without the owner's knowledge. It
made out, I am bound to say, quite a good case. He had collected every
possible scrap of evidence, down to Rose's new brooch. I suppose
Marion told him about that. He said at the end of the letter that he
had no motive in writing it except a sincere wish for Conroy's
welfare. This was quite untrue. He had several other motives. His love
of meddling was one. Hatred of Crossan was another. Jealousy of Bob
Power was a third.

"Now is there anything objectionable in that letter? Anything that one
gentleman would not write to another?"

I admitted that on the whole it was a civil letter.

"Now look at his answer," said Godfrey.

Conroy's answer was on a post-card. It consisted of six words only.

"Do not be a damned fool."

"Well," I said, "that's sound advice even if it's not very politely
expressed."

"Conroy's in it too," said Godfrey, vindictively, "and I'll make them
all sorry for themselves before I've done with them."

CHAPTER X

I find by consulting my diary that it was on the 30th of June that I
went to Dublin. I am not often in Dublin, though I do not share the
contempt for that city which is felt by most Ulstermen. Cahoon, for
instance, will not recognize it as the capital of the country in which
he lives, and always speaks of Dublin people as impractical, given
over to barren political discussion and utterly unable to make useful
things such as ships and linen. He also says that Dublin is dirty,
that the rates are exorbitantly high, and that the houses have not got
bath-rooms in them. I put it to him that there are two first-rate
libraries in Dublin.

"If I want a book," he said, "I buy it. We pay for what we use in
Belfast. We are business men."

"But," I explained, "there are some books, old ones, which you cannot
buy. You can only consult them in libraries."

"Why don't you go to London, then?" said Cahoon.

The conversation took place in the club. I lunched there on my way
through Belfast, going on to Dublin by an afternoon train. I was, in