of one's neighbor were matters of indifference.

Into this delectable byway there turned, late in the night of the second
day after that memorable evening at Strathorn House, a man who, looking
quickly around him, paused before the closed gate of one of the
dwellings. The street, ever a quiet one, appeared at that advanced hour
absolutely deserted, and, after a moment's hesitation, the man pulled
the bell; for some time he waited; but no response came. He looked in;
through the shrubbery he could dimly make out the house, set well back,
and in a half uncertain way he stood staring at it, when from the end of
the street, he heard a vehicle coming rapidly toward him.

More firmly the man jerked at the handle of the bell; this time his
efforts were successful; a glimmer as from a candle appeared at the
front door, and a few minutes later a dark form came slowly down the
graveled walk. As it approached the vehicle also drew nearer; the man
regarded the latter sidewise; now it was opposite him, and he turned his
back quickly to the flare of its lamps. But in a moment it had whirled
by, with a note of laughter from its occupants, light pleasure seekers;
at the same time a key turned in a lock and the gate swung open.

"Good evening, Dennis," said the caller. The faint gleam of the candle
revealed the drowsy and unmistakably Celtic face of him he addressed, a
man past middle age, who regarded the new-comer with a look of
recognition. "I'm afraid I've interrupted your slumbers. This is rather
a late hour at which to arrive."

"No matter, sir. Sure and I sat up expecting you, Mr. Steele, until
after midnight, and had only just turned in when--"