Bertie seized him by the wrist.
“You were? I have it all now. Now I know where I saw you,” speaking with fearful rapidity. “It was at the entrance C——. There was a fearful crush. You were not alone. You were with a young lady. Who is that girl? Where is she?” And he stopped, a world of excited earnestness in his eyes.
“That young lady is my daughter.”
“Where is she?”
“She is here.”
“Here?” a mad throb at his heart.
At this moment O’Hara emerged from the shanty, accompanied by two ladies, one of them, young and fresh and lovely, hanging fondly on his arm.
Bertie saw it all now. One wild glance told him that she was as far from him as the fleecy cloud sailing above his head—that she was the wife of Tim O’Hara.
“I don’t think, Dick, that I introduced you to my young friend, Dr. Martin. Doctor, this is Dick Darcy, one of the gayest fellows in all Ireland. Get your legs under his mahogany in Merrion Square and——”
“I have been in your house in Merrion Square. I have a letter of introduction to you from Mr. Joyce,” burst in Bertie.