"To be sure, you can't; it would be impossible," said Maureen. "Look here, Dom, somehow I feel in riotous spirits. I won't write that letter to 'dear Colonel.' I'll go to see him instead."
"I don't pretend to understand you, Maureen."
"You must have patience, boykins. Can I have any kind of trap? Otherwise I'll walk."
"Yes, I think I can get you a trap," said Dominic.
"Then say nothing to your father but get it quickly."
Soon Maureen, accompanied by one of the grooms, was seated in a shabby little two-wheeled cart and was herself driving a rough colt over the country roads towards Rathclaren.
Now if there was a miserable man to be found in a beautiful place at that moment, it was "dear Colonel." Maureen's letter, the return of the horse, and the groom, had completely upset him. He refused his food, he could not eat, he dared not make inquiries, for the little letter seemed, somehow, very sacred, but his heart was broken up with longing for the child and with undefined fears for her safety. As to Fly-away, never was a small, high-spirited Arab so petted and fussed over. The Colonel could not make enough of him. His white oats were the whitest in the country, his hot mash the most tempting, his loose box was the perfection of a loose box, and as to Garry the groom, he had a royal time in the kitchen, telling the other servants over and over again of the mysteries of that awful night when "herself, the little wicked 'un she was, tried to pison Fly-away, and would have succeeded but for a sthreak of light coming up through the boards."
"Mayhap it was the Vargin sent the light," said the cook.
"No, no, woman, I'm not superstitious. It was the dark lantern that caused the light. My word, she is a cunnin' wan."
The kitchen greatly enjoyed the adventure, and Garry, handsome and gay, was more fascinating than ever, more welcome than ever, with his merry eyes and cheery laugh. But then came the horrible news that Miss Maureen had gone away, no one knew where, and the Colonel was off his feed entirely, and his valet was certain that the Colonel never slept o' nights, but that he was on the fret the whole day and night. "And ef the round of the sun took forty-eight hours he'd still be on the fret," said Terence, the valet. "This sort o' thing will kill the Colonel. My word! I don't know what to make of it."