Miss Grimshaw tried to imagine what life would be like here, fifteen miles from a railway station. Despite the beauty of the scenery there was over all, or rather in it all, a touch of darkness, desolation, and poverty, a sombre note rising from the black bog patches, the wretched cabins by the way, the stone walls, the barren hills.
But the freshness of the air, the newness of it all, made up to the girl for the desolation. It was different from Fleet-street, and anything that is different from Fleet-street must have a certain beauty of its own.
She tried to imagine what trick Moriarty was going to play on the gentleman whose tall hat was so extremely out of keeping with the surroundings. That person, who had left the refreshments of the inn untried, had not come unprovided; he produced a flask from his pocket at times, fouling the air with the smell of bad brandy, but not a word did he speak as mile after mile slipped by and the sun sank and vanished and the moon glowed out, making wonderland of the world around them.
"We're more than ten miles on our road now, miss," said Moriarty, speaking across the car to Miss Grimshaw. "Do you see that crucked tree beyant on the right be the bog patch?"
"Yes."
"It was half-way betune that and thim bushes they shot ould Mr. Moriarty two years ago come next June."
"Shot him?"
"Faith, they filled him so full of bullets that the family had to put a sintry over the grave for fear the bhoys would dig him up to shtrip him of his lead."
"But who shot him?"
"That's what the jury said, miss, when they brought it in 'Not guilty' against Billy the Rafter, Long Sheelan, and Mick Mulcahy, and they taken with the guns smokin' in their hands—the blackgyards."