“Unless they’re landing what they’re ashamed of,” said Marion, “I don’t see why they’re doing it at night.”
Mysteries always irritate me. I answered Marion impatiently.
“You can’t be so foolish as to suppose that Conroy is smuggling. It wouldn’t be any temptation to a millionaire to cheat the revenue out of the duty on a few pounds of tobacco.”
Several more carts followed each other in a slow procession up the hill. It seemed as if Crossan’s entire staff of men and horses was engaged in this midnight transport service.
“Mr. Conroy might not know anything about it,” said Marion. “It may be done—”
“I don’t suppose Bob Power—”
“There was another man on board,” said Marion, “and Godfrey seemed to think that he was—well, not a very nice kind of man.”
“The fact that Godfrey called him a cad,” I said, “rather goes to show that he is a man with a great deal of good in him. Besides, as it happens, I know all about him. His name is McNeice and he is a Fellow of Trinity College. It’s ridiculous to suppose that he’s landing a cargo of port wine for consumption in the common room. Fellows of College don’t do that kind of thing. Besides, he’s a good scholar. I had some correspondence with him when I was writing my article on St. Patrick’s birthplace. I mean to ask him to dinner to-morrow.”
That disposed of Marion and her smuggling theory. She gave me a dutiful kiss and went to bed.