"Good heavens!" said the stranger, half beneath his breath; then aloud: "Eleven Irish miles?"
"Yes, sorr; there aren't any English miles in these parts. Were you going to Cloyne, sorr?"
"Yes; I'm staying at the inn there, and I came out to-day to fish a stream over there between those two hills; and the fool of a fellow I took with me got lost—at least, he went off and never came back; and I'll break his neck when I catch him."
"Was it Billy Sheelan, of the inn, be any chance, sorr?"
"Yes, I believe that was his name."
"Then he hasn't got lost, sorr; he's got dhrunk. This is Mr. Frinch's car, and if you'll step on to it I'll drive you back to Cloyne, if the young lady has no objection."
"Not in the least," said Miss Grimshaw.
The stranger raised his cap. He was a good-looking youth, well dressed, and his voice had a lot of character of a sort. It was a good-humoured, easy-going, happy-go-lucky voice, and it matched his face, or as much of his face as could be seen in the moonlight.
"It's awfully good of you," he said. "I'm dead beat, been on my legs since six, had good luck, too, only I lost all my fish tumbling into one of those bog holes. Just escaped with my life and my rod." He mounted on the same side of the car as the girl and continued to address his remarks to her as Moriarty drove on. "I believe I ought to introduce myself. Dashwood is my name. I came over for some fishing, and the more I see of Ireland, the more I like it. Your country——"
Miss Grimshaw laughed.