"Quite sure," replied his assistant. "At this very minute he is in
that tower over there by the shore. If you go near enough you'll see
the candle burning in the window."

As he spoke the noise of a horn sounded on the road outside, and a
moment after they heard the throbbing of a motor car brought to a
standstill before the door. Morton instantly sprang to his feet.

"Thank the Lord that's the car from Dublin," he said. "I can't do
anything without special authority, not if he were sitting on the
top of the tower and putting out his tongue at us. But the chief can
do what he thinks best."

He hurried out to the entrance and was soon exchanging greetings
with a big handsome man in a fur coat, who brought into the dingy
little station the indescribable glow of the great cities and the
luxuries of the great world.

For this was Sir Walter Carey, an official of such eminence in
Dublin Castle that nothing short of the case of Prince Michael would
have brought him on such a journey in the middle of the night. But
the case of Prince Michael, as it happened, was complicated by
legalism as well as lawlessness. On the last occasion he had escaped
by a forensic quibble and not, as usual, by a private escapade; and
it was a question whether at the moment he was amenable to the law
or not. It might be necessary to stretch a point, but a man like Sir
Walter could probably stretch it as far as he liked.

Whether he intended to do so was a question to be considered.