firm--suggested an admixture of Anglo-Saxon blood. The man looked
as if he might have had an English mother. It was perhaps this
formation of the mouth that had led those pleasant-spoken persons to
name to his relatives their conviction that Conyngham had a future
before him. The best liars are those who base their fancy upon
fact. They knew that the ordinary thoroughbred Irishman has usually
a cheerful enough life before him, but not that which is vaguely
called a future. Fred Conyngham looked like a man who could hold to
his purpose, but at this moment he also had the unfortunate
appearance of not possessing one to hold to.

He knocked the ashes from his pipe, and held the hot briar bowl
against the ear of a sleeping fox terrier, which animal growled,
without moving, in a manner that suggested its possession of a sense
of humour and a full comprehension of the harmless practical joke.

A moment later the dog sat up and listened with an interest that
gradually increased until the door opened and Geoffrey Horner came
into the room.

'Faith, it's Horner!' said Conyngham. 'Where are you from?'

'The North.'

'Ah--sit down. What have you been doing up there--tub-thumping?'

Horner came forward and sat down in the chair indicated. He looked
five years older than when he had last been there. Conyngham
glanced at his friend, who was staring into the fire.