A car rattled down the side road at that moment, and the light of its lamp shot through the bushes to his feet.
“The ould gate must be open,” he thought.
He looked and saw that it was, and then a new light dawned on him.
“She's gone up to Philip's,” he told himself. “She's gone by Claughbane to Ballure to find me.”
Five minutes afterwards he was knocking at Ballure House. His breath was coming in gusts, perspiration was standing in beads on his face, and his head was still bare, but he was carrying himself bravely as if nothing were amiss. His knock was answered by the maid, a tall girl of cheerful expression, in a black frock, a white apron, and a snow-white cap. Pete nodded and smiled at her.
“Anybody been here for me? No?” he asked.
“No, sir, n—o, I think not,” the girl answered, and as she looked at Pete her face straightened.
There was a rustling within as of autumn leaves, and then a twittering voice cried, “Is it Capt'n Quilliam, Martha?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
Some whispered conference took place at the dining-room door, and Auntie Nan came hopping through the hall. But Pete was already moving away in the darkness.