LITMIR.BIZ

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him half way. I imagine you may be in a position to tell me how he means to strike. It is awful kind of you to take such trouble."

      The thought had suddenly occurred to him that perhaps she might have come from Cleo, and he winced at the verbatim report of his declaration she must necessarily take back; but it was the truth, and Roderic Owen had always made a point to stick to his guns in action.

      She was growing uneasy, as though fearful lest he might allow his curiosity respecting her identity get the better of his gentlemanly instincts. So when she spoke again it was hurriedly, her manner betraying a desire to end the interview.

      "I have gone so far that it only remains for me to tell you the nature of the plot whereby this jealous fortune seeker hopes not only to ruin you in the eyes of the Senorita Cleo, but before your government as well.

      "You are staying at the Shelbourne hotel. Your room overlooks the cascade in St. Stevens green. You have arranged to meet one at the park gate at twelve to-night, expecting to receive information respecting the clique of Spanish sympathizers at present sojourning in Dublin as a city least suspected of harboring America's foes. They have come here in the hope of arousing the slumbering Fenian spirit should Great Britain join the states against France or Germany.

      "Your expected informant is in their pay—he intends to suddenly pounce upon you and, aided by allies in hiding carry you off. It will be made to appear that you have abandoned your patriotic mission, and fled with a well known adventuress to the gaming tables of Monte Carlo."

      "The duse! This is a nice kettle of fish. And only for you I might have fallen a victim of the plot. But forewarned is forearmed. Some one shall take my place, since it would be a pity they should have their labor for nothing. It shall be diamond cut diamond from this hour. And now, believe me, I am duly sensible of the great service you had done me, lady. God knows it would give me pleasure to reciprocate should the occasion ever arise."

      "I believe it—I know it, Senor Owen," she said, with some confusion.

      "I do not ask your name—that you wish it to remain a secret is enough for me. But at least you will shake hands before we part. It is a part of an American's code, you know—add one more obligation to those you have heaped upon me. Do not refuse, I beg."

      She had shrunk back as though alarmed at the prospect, but his debonair manner, together with the absurdity of the fear that almost overwhelmed her seemed to force her to meet his friendly advances, and a little hand crept shyly out from among the dusky robes, advancing half way.

      Roderic Owen clasped it in his own, and was conscious of a most remarkable sensation that seemed to flash along his arm until it finally brought up in the region of his heart.

      It may have been electricity, or some kindred element, but all the same he considered it exceeding queer.

      Perhaps in his warmth he pressed her hand so that the setting of her rings inflicted pain. At any rate she gave a little exclamation.

      "Forgive me; I forgot your rings, idiot that I am," and with a gallantry he must have inherited from ancestors who once ruled in this ever green isle he hastily raised the bruised digits to his lips.

      This caused her to snatch away her hand and with a hasty "buenos noches" hurry to meet a tramcar coming from the monument.

      Before Owen could fully recover from his surprise she had entered the double decked vehicle of transportation, and was lost to his sight.

      He stood there, leaning against the stone railing of O'Connell bridge and looking after the car, a very much puzzled man.

      "Ah!" he ejaculated, as snatching out his handkerchief he waved it vigorously in response to the one that fluttered from the open window of the humble tramcar.

      Then the man from over the sea mechanically drew out his cigar case, selected a weed, struck a match on the stone coping of the bridge, and began to puff away as though he might in this manner free his brain of the mental cobwebs that seemed to clog his clear reasoning.

      At the same time he started in the direction of Trinity College, swinging a stout cane, and musing upon the singular events that had on this night opened a new chapter in his experience.

      And somehow it seemed to the adventurous Owen that they bore a definite connection with his past—again he heard that voice sounding as with the music of sweet birds—its dim echo, so familiar and yet eluding his grasp like a fluttering will-o'-the-wisp, how exasperating it was. Where had he met this seeming nun in the sable robe, and who was she?

      Then suddenly he saw a great light—the confused memories drifted into one clear vision. Again he stood on the brilliantly lighted Grand Plaza of the Porto Rican capital with surging crowds of officers and civilians around him, while a really excellent military band played the beautiful, voluptuous airs of sunny Spain—again he heard a voice, sweet as that of a lark, floating upon the night air from an open window, and singing a serenade—Roderic was carried back two years in his life to scenes that had been marked by stormy passion, and the realization gave him a tremendous shock.

      He had reached the vicinity of Trinity's bold Campanile when this bolt went home, and the effect was so great as to actually bring him to a full stop, with held breath.

      "By Jove! to think I never suspected the amazing truth when talking with her. Now I know it, I can swear to it—the same voice, which I have never heard equaled. And she has done this thing for me, Roderic Owen, whom possibly she has reason to hate. Heavens! there is some fatality back of it all, and we are but puppets on life's great stage, playing our little parts automatically. God alone sees the end. Yes, that was Georgia de Brabant, the charming maid of San Juan, over whom half the Spanish officers raved, about whom more than a few duels were fought, and with whose fate my own life thread became entangled in a way that has forever prevented my loving cousin Cleo or any other woman. The past then is not dead—again she enters my life—she comes like an angel of light to save me from being made the victim of a foul plot. That would indicate anything but hate. What lies before me mortal cannot guess, but my duty is clear, and come weal come woe, I am bound to serve my country first, last and always, no matter what the sacrifice. And ye gods, I kissed the hand whereon perhaps dazzled his rings."

CHAPTER II.

       ALAS! FOR THE GAME THAT FAILED TO WORK.

       Table of Contents

      Evidently Roderic Owen was disturbed by this meeting more than he would have cared to confess. When ghosts that are supposed to have been laid for all time come back to haunt us, memory plays havoc with the strongest resolutions. Owen lived again in the past—his ears seemed to drink in the music and merriment of the gay Spanish-American capital—he saw once more a face that had been enshrined in his heart as queen of the realm, and somehow the memory was not so unpleasant. Instead of groaning over the disasters of the past he found himself unconsciously building new chateaux d'Espagne. Hope ever abides in the human breast—though daily overthrown it rises again and again, Phœnix like from the ashes, and builds anew.

      From the shadow of Trinity College and the Bank of Ireland, formerly the Irish House of Parliament, it was but a short distance to his hotel, the luxurious Shelbourne.

      Having once entered the caravansary he cast his eyes around as though seeking some one. A number of gentlemen lounged near the booking offices, while on the first landing of the wide stairs among palms and flowers ladies could be seen.

      It was a bright picture, entirely foreign to the usual run of transatlantic hotels to which Owen was accustomed.

      A pair of bright eyes detected his arrival and a fair hand beckoned him upward.

      Time was of value to him, but when beauty demands attendance other things may wait, and he believed he could spare a few minutes at any rate.

      She was a remarkable young woman, this Cleopatra Fairfax, and few men could have resisted her charms

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