Charred Wood | Page 4

front of the tree an hour before he saw her. Had she seen him before she came out? She had given no sign; but if she had seen him, she had trusted him with a secret. Mark looked at the tree. It was half embedded in the wall. Then he understood. The tree masked a secret entrance to Killimaga.
He was still smiling over his discovery when he heard the voices of the agent and constable. They were coming back, so he dropped into his hiding place in the tall grass.
"Well, Brown," the agent was saying, "I am going to tackle her. I've got to see that face. It's the only way! If I saw it once, I'd know for sure from the photograph they sent me."
"Ye'd better not," advised the constable. "She might be a-scared before--"
"But I've got to be sure," interrupted the agent.
"Aw, ye're sure enough, ain't ye? There's the photygraft, and I seed her."
"But she slipped me in Boston, and I nearly lost the trail. I can't take chances on this job--it's too important--and I've got to report something pretty soon. That damn veil! She always has it on."
"Yep, she had it when she come down here, too, and when she tuk the house. All right, see her if ye can! Ye're the jedge. She's coming around the bend of the road now." The constable was peering out from his hiding place among the bushes.
"Is the priest with her?" asked the agent.
"He's gone back to the village. She didn't go that far--she seldom does. But he goes to see her; and she goes to his church on Sundays."
"I wonder if he knows anything?"
"Trust that gent to know most everything, I guess." The constable was very positive. "Father Murray's nobody's fool," he added, "and she won't talk to nobody else. I'll bet a yearlin' heifer he's on; but nobody could drag nothing out of him."
"I know that," said the agent. "I've been up there a dozen times, and I've talked with him by the hour--but always about books; I couldn't get him to talk about anything else. Here she is! Go on back."
The constable disappeared behind the bushes, and his companion stood out in the little clearing to wait.
The woman saw him; Mark, watching from the long grass, thought she hesitated. Then she dropped her veil and came on. The agent stepped forward, and the woman seemed distressed. What the agent intended to do Mark could not guess, but he made up his mind at once as to what he would do himself. He arose and, just as the agent met the lady, Mark's arm went through his and he--not of his own volition--turned to face the ocean.
"Hello, Saunders!" Mark said heartily. "Who'd expect to see you here, with no one near to buy rare editions?"
Saunders looked at him with annoyance, but Mark was friendly. He slipped his arm out of the agent's and slapped him on the shoulder.
"Look out at that sea, you old money-grabber. There's a sight for your soul. Did you ever think of the beauty of it? Such a day!--no wonder you're loafing. Oh! I beg your pardon, Madam. I am in your way."
Keeping Saunders' back to the lady, Mark stepped aside to let her pass. Saunders could not even look back, as she walked quickly behind them. The agent stammered a reply to Mark's unwelcome greeting before he turned. But it was too late, for Mark heard the click that told him that the tree had closed. He looked for the constable, to see if he had been watching her and had discovered the secret door; but the constable was leisurely walking toward the village.
CHAPTER II
MONSIGNORE
As the two men walked along, Mark Griffin, tall and of athletic build, offered a sharp contrast to the typical American beside him. With his gray tweeds, Mark, from his cap to shoes, seemed more English than Irish, and one instinctively looked for the monocle--but in vain, for the Irish-gray eyes, deep-set under the heavy straight brows, disdained artifice as they looked half-seriously, though also a bit roguishly, out upon the world. The brown hair clustered in curls above the tanned face with its clear-cut features, the mouth firm under the aquiline nose, the chin slightly squared--the face of one who would seek and find.
He looked at his companion, clad in a neat-fitting business suit of blue, his blond hair combed straight back under the carelessly-tilted Alpine, and felt that the smaller man was one not to be despised. "A man of brains," thought Mark, as he noted the keen intelligent look from the blue eyes set in a face that, though somewhat irregular in feature, bespoke strong determination.
Mentally, the two men were matched. Should they ever be pitted against each other, it would be impossible for anyone to