“Very well, I’ll do whatever you wish,” she replied.
“All right, then come on”—the usual British invitation—and Vera followed her new acquaintance off the rath, and in a short time found herself in an overgrown neglected avenue, leading to a great forlorn old house, that looked forbiddingly grim in the moonlight. Hegan turned the handle of the hall door, and ushered his companion into an immense vaulted hall, entirely bare of furniture.
“Just wait in here,” and he opened the door into what had once been a library—a large apartment flooded by moonlight, which revealed rows of bare bookshelves and square marks on the walls, where pictures had been, and were not. The room was empty, and apparently the house was in the same condition; there was not a sound to be heard.
Suddenly there was a shuffling of feet, and a loud voice in the hall calling for “Rabbits—rabbits—where’s them rabbits?”
Then the door burst open, and an unwieldy female figure appeared, staggering on the threshold.
“Where’s that lazy, good-for-nothing blaggard?” she demanded.
Catching sight of Vera, she paused, stared, and then, with one ear-splitting yell, turned and fled. A few minutes after this astonishing visitor had disappeared, Hegan entered, whip in hand.
“Sorry to have kept you—I had to borrow a horse. The ‘Yoke,’ as they call it, awaits you.”
There at the steps stood a high dogcart, with a shaggy cart-horse in the shafts, and in another moment Vera was bumping down the ill-kept drive. Either Hegan was a capital whip, or the cart-horse had a bit of pedigree, for once on the road they bowled along at a spanking pace.
“Who was the woman who came into the room?” inquired Vera.