The old abbot—buried, so say the traditions of the family, under the ruins of the pile that he reared with such pride and vainglory—never lived to enjoy his riches. Twice he built the house, and twice it was destroyed; the first time partially, and by fire, the second time utterly. "For," so the story goes, "a wind rose in the night, and swept the great stones one from another, leaving the place as it is to this day." No Blake has ever been bold enough to rebuild it.
As Power Magill passes into the quadrangle, an owl flies out of the ivy, and sweeps so close before his face that he draws back, startled. The bird's cry is caught up and echoed round the empty spaces, till it seems as if the place must be full of mocking spirits. With a frown he turns and retraces his steps, never pausing to look back till he has gained the steps on Donaghmore. A dark cloud has obscured the sun, and the whole pile lies in the shadow.
Superstitious under all his cynicism, Power Magill shudders.
"It is an omen," he says: and the next moment the heavy door behind him swings open, and Honor stands on the threshold.
Her cheeks flush, her eyes brighten at the sight of him.
"Oh, Power," she says, with a ring of pleasure in her voice, "I was just longing to see you! I want to talk to you," she adds, coming down the steps and slipping her hand within his arm; "and we can talk best out-of-doors."
They go together across the lawn, and through a small green door into a high-walled garden, richly stocked with old-fashioned flowers.
"Another letter came this morning, Power—such a dreadful letter, worse than all the rest!—and last night Launce's bay mare was shot through the head. He is in an awful way about it, so is the pater. They have gone to Drum now to tell the police."
She is looking at him as she says this; and the cruel expression in his eyes and the mocking smile that stirs his lips make her heart beat with something like fear.
"They might have spared themselves the trouble—the police cannot help them."