The dusk was cool and soft. Below him the current gurgled against the piers with sounds as though the river's fairies laughed there in the gloom. Doves nestled against the rafters of the bridge above, stirring with tired murmurings.
When he came out under the stars he saw the red eyes of Dennis Kavanagh's house. The sight of them put the peace of the sky and fields out of his heart. He spurred his horse and galloped up the hill.
Even as Thelismer Thornton found true haven on his porch in the summer evening, so Dennis Kavanagh had his solace in his own domain, smoking his pipe. He sat there when Harlan swung close to the steps.
"Mr. Kavanagh," said the young man, sternly, "I am Harlan Thornton. Do you know any ill of me?"
"I know that you're old Land-Grabber Thornton's grandson! I also know that you have shaken him in politics until his old teeth rattled. And I'm much obliged to you!"
"I'm not here to talk about politics or my grandfather. I'm here on my own account. You know where your own daughter is. I've come to ask you honorably and fairly where she is. Will you tell me?"
Mr. Kavanagh was silent a long time. He seemed to be struggling with some kind of surprise.
"No, I'll not tell you," he declared at last.
"Then I want to tell you something, sir. I love your daughter. I love her so honestly—so devotedly that I propose to search for her through this world. And when I find her—" he hesitated.
"If you find her?"