Charred Wood | Page 4

tree. It was almost laughable. This
woman had come into his dreams. The very sight of her attracted
him--or was it the manner of her coming? She was just like an ideal he
had often made for himself. Few men meet even the one who looks like
the ideal, but he had seen the reality--coming out of a tree. He kept on
wondering how long she had been there. He himself had been dreaming
in 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