said it all with a smile on his face. It was done so cleverly,
with so much simulated sincerity, that Dyck, in his state of
semi-drunkenness, could not, at the instant, place him in his true
light. Besides, there was something handsome and virile in Boyne's
face--and untrue; but the untruth Dyck did not at the moment see.

Never in his life had Boyne performed such prodigies of dissimulation.
He was suddenly like a schoolboy disclosing the deeds of some
adventurous knight. He realized to the full the dangers he had run in
disclosing the truth; for it was the truth that he had told.

So serious was the situation, to his mind, that one thing seemed
inevitable. Dyck must be kidnapped at once and carried out of Ireland.
It would be simple. A little more drugged wine, and he would be asleep
and powerless--it had already tugged at him. With the help of his
confreres in the tavern, Dyck could be carried out, put on a lugger, and
sent away to France.

There was nothing else to do. Boyne had said truly that the French fleet
meant to come soon. Dyck must not be able to give the thing away before
it happened. The chief thing now was to prime him with the drugged wine
till he lost consciousness, and then carry him away to the land of the
guillotine. Dyck's tempestuous nature, the poetry and imagination of
him, would quickly respond to French culture, to the new orders of the
new day in France. Meanwhile, he must be soaked in drugged drink.

Already the wine had played havoc with him; already stupefaction was
coming over his senses. With a good-natured, ribald laugh, Boyne
poured out another glass of marsala and pushed it gently over to Dyck's
fingers.

"My gin to your marsala," he said, and he raised his own glass of gin,
looking playfully over the top to Dyck.

With a sudden loosening of all the fibres of his nature, Dyck raised the
glass of marsala to his lips and drained it off almost at a gulp.

"You're a prodigious liar, Boyne," he said. "I didn't think any one
could lie so completely."

"I'll teach you how, Calhoun. It's not hard. I'll teach you how."

He passed a long cigar over the table to Dyck, who, however, did not
light it, but held it in his fingers. Boyne struck a light and held it
out across the small table. Dyck leaned forward, but, as he did so, the
wine took possession of his senses. His head fell forward in sleep, and
the cigar dropped from his fingers.

"Ah, well--ah, well, we must do some business n