“I am off to America by the first steamer,” he said, joyously. “It is all tommyrot following this thing up. I’m going back, tell everything as far as I know, and let the police do the rest.”
The Irishman looked at him in amazement.
“What’s come over you, lad?” he asked, solemnly. “Have you gone off your head or are you dreaming? Sure you’re not going to back out now when we’ve got such a pretty little fight ahead of us, with the enemy in ambush and afraid to show their colours?”
“No, I’m not off my head,” Grey replied a little less gaily. He did not like the suggested imputation of cowardice.
“Then you are dreaming, sure.”
“I have been.” The reply was ambiguous, but O’Hara took it that his friend had changed his mind.
“And you’re not now; you’re awake, wide awake, eh? And you’re going to stop and rout ’em, horse, foot, and dragoon? That’s right, man. What the devil put the going-home notion in your noddle? I’ll wager twenty pounds it’s a woman you’ve been thinking of.”
Grey stood by the window looking out on the drenched Boulevard. O’Hara’s words were an inspiration, but the face and form of Hope were still before him and her voice still echoed in his ears. The longing would not easily down.
“I’ve been looking after your blessed cablegrams,” the Irishman went on. “There’s only one there for you. I told ’em my name was Grey and opened it and read it. Then I gave it back to ’em, and explained it must be for same other Grey. I told ’em my name was Charley, and that that was addressed to Carey.”
“Only one?” Grey exclaimed, in a tone of disappointment, turning. “I don’t suppose Mallory will answer. What a damned blackguard he must think me! He’s handed my cable over to the police, of course. I suppose extradition papers are under way by this time. But the one? What was it?”