"Oh, a number of things. For one, the Fleet sailed from Portsmouth two days ago with coal piled up like haystacks on deck."
"What the deuce for?" I asked.
"Fresh air and exercise, I suppose," he answered. "If you want to try your hand again at war correspondence, I make no doubt you'll have the chance."
"This is devilish serious," I said. Experience had taught me that news from O'Rane was not to be lightly set aside.
"As serious as you like," he agreed. "Don't pull too long a face, though, or you'll spoil Jim's party."
And with that word his manner changed. Loring Castle lies between Chepstow and Tintern on a high ridge of hills overlooking the Severn. In normal times I have lunched in town, taken tea on the train and reached my destination after a run of four or five hours. On this occasion the strike and holiday traffic caused us to stop at countless wayside stations; it was after eight when we reached Chepstow, but, thanks to O'Rane, the journey was the most hilarious I have ever undertaken. Panic and disorder indeed descended upon us when at last the train steamed in and our two reserved coaches yielded up their sixteen men, twelve girls and nine maids; to this day I cannot explain how I fitted the party and its luggage into the different cars and delivered all at the Castle without loss or mishap, but, when Loring entered my room as I was dressing, he informed me that not so much as a jewel-case had gone astray.
"Any news in town?" he asked, and I gave him the gossip of Mayhew and O'Rane. "I meant about Ireland," he went on. "This Austrian business won't come to anything, but there's trouble brewing in your sweet island. We're all rather depressed down here."
O'Rane, who had scrambled along the balcony, appeared at the open window in time to catch the last words.
"The only man who has the right to be depressed," he said, "is the luckless devil who's put his money into Austrian oil."
Loring turned to him swiftly.