f the family, under the
ruins of the pile that he reared with such pride and vainglory--never
lived to enjoy his riches. Twice he built the house, and twice it was
destroyed; the first time partially, and by fire, the second time
utterly. "For," so the story goes, "a wind rose in the night, and swept
the great stones one from another, leaving the place as it is to this
day." No Blake has ever been bold enough to rebuild it.

As Power Magill passes into the quadrangle, an owl flies out of the
ivy, and sweeps so close before his face that he draws back, startled.
The bird's cry is caught up and echoed round the empty spaces, till it
seems as if the place must be full of mocking spirits. With a frown he
turns and retraces his steps, never pausing to look back till he has
gained the steps on Donaghmore. A dark cloud has obscured the sun, and
the whole pile lies in the shadow.

Superstitious under all his cynicism, Power Magill shudders.

"It is an omen," he says: and the next moment the heavy door behind him
swings open, and Honor stands on the threshold.

Her cheeks flush, her eyes brighten at the sight of him.

"Oh, Power," she says, with a ring of pleasure in her voice, "I was
just longing to see you! I want to talk to you," she adds, coming down
the steps and slipping her hand within his arm; "and we can talk best
out-of-doors."

They go together across the lawn, and through a small green door into a
high-walled garden, richly stocked with old-fashioned flowers.

"Another letter came this morning, Power--such a dreadful letter, worse
than all the rest!--and last night Launce's bay mare was shot through
the head. He is in an awful way about it, so is the _pater_. They have
gone to Drum now to tell the police."

She is looking at him as she says this; and the cruel expression in his
eyes and the mocking smile that stirs his lips make her heart beat with
something like fear.

"They might have spared themselves the trouble--the police cannot help
them."

"What can we do, Power? What ought we to do?" she says, almost
piteously.

"I told you long ago what you ought to do. It's almost too late
now--Launce has made the place too hot to hold him, and that's the
truth, Honor. The sooner he goes back to Dublin the better for all of
you."

"Poor Launce--I don't see what he has done!"

"He has done enough to get his _quietus_," Power answers grimly; "and
he would have had it long ago if he had not had a friend to sp