He sighed as he relegated these things, both pleasant and painful, once more to oblivion, and again rallied his forces to grapple with the game on hand.

Just around the corner he came across a man advancing toward the hotel, and whom he hailed.

"Well met, Darby—I was on the way to hunt you up, while you seem headed for my quarters."

"Just so, sir," replied the other, who appeared a man of few words, and evidently one in whom Owen placed much confidence.

"You complained recently of rusting—that everything seemed so dull and dead. As fortune has it I am now in a position to offer you a little excitement, and at the same time you may be of great service to me."

Darby nodded his head—he was a man of ice, whom nothing could excite, and yet to whom action was as the air he breathed.

Knowing the nature of the man so well, Owen struck directly into his story, and ere many minutes had flown the other was as well acquainted with the facts as himself.

One feature alone he repressed.

This was the attachment on Cleo's part for so unworthy an individual as himself—that was too sacred to be given over as common property.

Darby would have to guess a reason for the hatred of Wellington—perhaps he might lay it to the Spanish sympathies of the other, which induced him to seek Dublin in order to have a hand in the mysterious conference with pronounced Fenian leaders; or it might be his sagacity would suggest the only plausible explanation.

Thus the story was told.

"Quite a neat little affair," commented Darby.

"Will you take my place?" asked Owen.

[24]

[24]

The other's face showed no sign of emotion.

"Just so, sir."

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