The old man paused in his walk. Then he came forward towards the speaker and dropped on one knee. His face showed no surprise, though his eyes were strange and almost terribly brilliant.
"The Cathley!" he exclaimed. "God is good!"
He kissed his master's hand, which he had seized with almost frantic joy.
Jocelyn Thew raised him to his feet.
"You recognised me then, Timothy?"
"There is no Cathley in the world," the old man answered passionately, "would ever rise up before me and call himself by any other name."
"Am I safe here, Timothy, for a day or two?"
The old man's scorn was a wonderful thing.
"Safe!" he repeated. "Safe! There is just a dozen miles or so of the Kingdom of Ireland where the stranger who came on evil business would disappear, and it's our pride that we are the centre of it."
"They've held on, then, in these parts?"
"Hold on? Why, the fire that smouldered has become a blaze," was the eager response. "Ireland is our country here. Why—you know?"