ink I had," said Pinckney lightly, and not gauging the mad
disturbance of the other, "and it's lucky for him I haven't put him in
prison."

The word prison was all that was wanted to fire the mine. Pinckney stood
for a moment aghast at the change in the girl.

"I _hate_ you," she cried, coming a step closer to him. "I loathe
you--master of us all, are you? Dare to touch any one here and I'll burn
the house down with my own hands--you--you--"

She paused for want of breath, her chest heaving and her hands clenched.

Then Pinckney exploded.

The good old fiery Pinckney blood was up. Oh, without any manner of doubt
our ancestors are still able to speak, and it was old Roderick
Pinckney--"Pepper Pinckney" was his nickname--that blazed out now. It was
also the fire of youth answering the fire of youth.

"Damn it!" he cried. "I've come here to do my best--I don't care--keep who
you want--be robbed if you like it--I'm off--" He caught up all the sheets
of paper he had been covering with figures and tore them across.

"Beast!" cried Phyl.

She rushed from the room and upstairs like a mad creature. The bang of her
bedroom door closed the incident.

"Now don't be taking on so," said Hennessey. "You've both of you lost your
temper."

"Lost my temper--maybe. I'm going all the same. Right back to the States.
I'm off to Dublin by the next train and you'd better come and finish the
business there. You'd better have her to stay with you in Dublin. I don't
want to see her again. Anyhow, we'll settle all that later."

"Maybe that's the best," said Hennessey. "My wife will look after her till
she's ready to go to the States--if she wants to."

"Please God she doesn't," replied the other.

Phyl did not see Pinckney again. He went off to Dublin by the two-ten
train with Hennessey, the latter promising to be back on the morrow to
arrange things.

CHAPTER VIII

Dublin can never have been a cheerful city. Even in the days when the
butchers joined in street fights and hung their antagonists when caught on
steel hooks--like legs of mutton--the gaiety of Dublin one may fancy to
have been more a matter of spirits than of spirit.

Echoes from the days when the Parliament sat in Stephen's Green come down
to us through the works of Charles Lever, but the riotous gaiety of the
old days when Barrington was a judge of the Admiralty Court, the Hell Fire
Club an institution, and Count Considine a figure in society, must be
take