“And a pretty girl she is!” exclaimed Kirwan, indulging in a prolonged whistle as he gazed at it sideways like a bird.
“I must have it,” said Bertram, a dogged resolution in his tone.
“How is that to be done? You can’t steal it, Bertie.”
“It shall be done fairly and squarely if possible; if not, I shall smash the glass.”
“Tut! tut! man, you’re not thinking.”
The wound had been nearly healed, the memory of that girlish face was fast becoming a sweet treasure of a by-gone time, to be lingered over at fitful intervals, and always with rapture, when this unlooked-for freak of destiny caused the wound to bleed afresh, and memory to burst into rich and fragrant blossom.
During each of the three days that he remained in Dublin Bertram Martin visited the deserted mansion in Merrion Square, to gaze at that photograph, all so near and yet so far. Could he have but obtained a solitary clue to the whereabouts of the Darcys no earthly power would have prevented his following them; but clue there was none.
The train clanked into the station at Killarney in a mist as thick as a ladies’ tulle-illusion veil.
“If this sort of thing is going to last we sha’n’t see much of Kate Kearney,” laughed Kirwan.