In Kedars Tents | Page 6

never heard of it!) will be forgotten.'
Horner sat looking with hollow eyes at the young Irishman, his lips twitching, his fingers interlocked--there is nothing makes so complete a coward of a man as a woman's love. Conyngham laughed as the notion unfolded itself in his mind. He might, as he himself had said, be of no great brain power, but he was at all events a man and a brave one. He stood a full six foot, and looked down at his companion, who sat whitefaced and shrinking.
'It is quite easy,' he said, 'for me to disappear in such a manner as to arouse suspicion. I have nothing to keep me here; my briefs-- well, the Solicitor-General can have 'em! I have no ties--nothing to keep me in any part of the world. When young Pleydell is on his feet again, and a few more windows have been broken, and nine days have elapsed, the wonder will give place to another, and I can return to my--practice.'
'I couldn't let you do it.'
'Oh yes, you could,' said Conyngham with the quickness of his race to spy out his neighbour's vulnerable point. 'For the sake of Edith and the little devil.'
Horner sat silent, and after a moment Conyngham went on.
'All we want to do is to divert suspicion from you now--to put them on a false scent, for they must have one of some sort. When they find that they cannot catch me they will forget all about it.'
Horner shuffled in his seat. This was nothing but detection of the thoughts that had passed through his own mind.
'It is easily enough done,' went on the Irishman. 'A paragraph here and there in some of the newspapers; a few incriminating papers left in these rooms, which are certain to be searched. I have a bad name--an Irish dog goes about the world with a rope round his neck. If I am caught it will not be for some time, and then I can get out of it somehow--an alibi or something. I'll get a brief at all events. By that time the scent will be lost, and it will be all right. Come, Geoff, cheer up! A man of your sort ought not to be thrown by a mischance like this.'
He stood with his legs apart, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, a gay laugh on his lips, and much discernment in his eyes.
'Oh, d---n Edith!' he added after a pause, seeing that his efforts met with no response. 'D---n that child! You used to have some pluck, Horner.' Horner shook his head and made no answer, but his very silence was a point gained. He no longer protested nor raised any objection to his companion's hare-brained scheme. The thing was feasible, and he knew it.
Conyngham went on to set forth his plans, which with characteristic rapidity of thought he evolved as he spoke.
'Above all,' he said, 'we must be prompt. I must disappear to- night, the paragraphs must be in to-morrow's papers. I think I'll go to Spain. The Carlists seem to be making things lively there. You know, Horner, I was never meant for a wig and gown--there's no doubt about that. I shall have a splendid time of it out there--'
He stopped, meeting a queer look in Horner's eyes, who sat leaning forward and searching his face with jealous glance.
'I was wondering,' said the other, with a pale smile, 'if you were ever in love with Edith.'
'No, my good soul, I was not,' answered Conyngham, with perfect carelessness, 'though I knew her long before you did.'
He paused, and a quick thought flashed through his mind that some men are seen at their worst in adversity. He was ready enough to find excuses for Horner, for men are strange in the gift of their friendship, often bestowing it where they know it is but ill deserved.
He rattled on with unbroken gaiety, unfolding plans which in their perfection of detail suggested a previous experience in outrunning the constable.
While they were still talking a mutual friend came in--a quick- spoken man already beginning to be known as a journalist of ability. They talked on indifferent topics for some time. Then the new-comer said jerkily:
'Heard the news?'
'No,' answered Conyngham.
'Alfred Pleydell--young fellow who resisted the Chartist rioters at Durham--died yesterday morning.' Frederick Conyngham had placed himself in front of Horner, who was still seated in the low chair by the fire. He found Horner's toe with his heel.
'Is that so?' he said gravely. 'Then I'm off.'
'What do you mean?' asked the journalist with a quick look--the man had the manner of a ferret.
'Nothing, only I'm off, that's all, old man. And I cannot ask you to stay this evening, you understand, because I have to pack.'
He turned slowly on Horner, who had recovered himself,