Peter had not yet returned to the yacht when Varney went to bed that
night. Like the Finnegan of song, he was gone again when Varney rose
next morning. Indeed, it was only too clear that his Celtic interests
had been suddenly engrossed by matters much nearer his heart than the
prospect, as he saw the thing, of spanking a naughty child.

"He was off by half-past eight, sir," the steward, McTosh, told Varney
at breakfast. "He said to tell you to give yourself no uneasiness, sir;
that he was only going to Mr. Hare's--I think was the name--for a short
call, and would return by ten o'clock."

"What else did he say?"

"Well, sir, he was saying how the poltix of the village is not all they
might be, but he seemed very cheerful, sir, and took three times to the
chops."

At dinner-time last night such extraordinary behavior from his
fellow-conspirator would have both disturbed and angered Varney. At
breakfast-time this morning it hardly interested him. He had employed
his walk from the cottage of refuge to the Carstairs front gate to
unbelievable advantage. In fact, his mission in Hunston seemed to be all
over but the shouting, and until the moment of final action arrived,
there appeared no reason why Peter should not employ his time in any way
he saw fit.

The heavy storm had scoured the air, and the world was bright as a new
pin. In the shaded solitude of the after-deck, Mr. Carstairs's agent sat
in an easy-chair with a cigarette, and thought over the remarkable
happenings of his first night in Hunston. In retrospect young Editor