"Oh, I know, I know," she exclaimed in a tone so full of sadness that he feared he had touched on some secret grief.
He rode beside her in silence, not knowing what to say lest he added to her distress, but yet tormented by the idea that he should speak out what was in his heart and learn, once and for all, whether his hopes were to be realised or shattered. Keeping slightly behind her, he was able to watch her without her knowing it. She was staring between her horse's ears, her lips tightly closed, her head erect, and her cheeks pale. Lost, apparently, in the reverie his words had called up, she seemed to have forgotten his presence as a mile went by without her turning her head or opening her lips.
But she had not forgotten he was there. At a turn in the road she uttered a sharp exclamation and held out her hand, pointing.
"Oh, it is too bad," she exclaimed bitterly. "It is too much for anyone to bear. Look at that!"
Away down the road Durham saw a horse and rider. The horse was making its own way, the rider having as much as he could do to keep in the saddle. He was swaying from side to side, occasionally waving his arms in the air and howling out a tuneless ditty in a strident cracked voice.
"Old Patsy," Durham said shortly.
"Oh, what will I do?" she exclaimed.
"Better let me take him back and give him a few days where he will have time to recover his senses, I think," he said.
She flashed a furious glance at him.
"I shall do no such thing," she snapped. "The best thing you can do is to get out of sight before he sees you. He hates you, Mr. Durham. Irishmen of his class always hate the police. The sight of you will only aggravate him in his present state."