IRIS rose to go. Her godfather courteously stopped her.

“Wait here,” he said, “until I have spoken to the Sergeant, and I will escort you to my house. My clerk will do what is necessary at the hotel. You don’t look quite satisfied. Is the arrangement that I have proposed not agreeable to you?”

Iris assured him that she gratefully acceded to the arrangement. At the same time, she confessed to having been a little startled, on discovering that he was in consultation with the police. “I remember that we are in Ireland,” she explained, “and I am foolish enough to fear that you may be in some danger. May I hope that it is only a trifle?”

Only a trifle! Among ether deficient sensibilities in the strange nature of Iris, Sir Giles had observed an imperfect appreciation of the dignity of his social position. Here was a new proof of it! The temptation to inspire sentiments of alarm — not unmingled with admiration — in the mind of his insensible goddaughter, by exhibiting himself as a public character threatened by a conspiracy, was more than the banker’s vanity could resist. Before he left the room, he instructed Dennis to tell Miss Henley what had happened, and to let her judge for herself whether he had been needlessly alarmed by, what she was pleased to call, “a mere trifle.”

Dennis Howmore must have been more than mortal, if he could have related his narrative of events without being influenced by his own point of view. On the first occasion when he mentioned Arthur Mountjoy’s name, Iris showed a sudden interest in his strange story which took him by surprise.

“You know Mr. Arthur?” he said.

“Knew him!” Iris repeated. “He was my playfellow when we were both children. He is as dear to me as if he was my brother. Tell me at once — is he really in danger?”

Dennis honestly repeated what he had already said, on that subject, to his master. Miss Henley, entirely agreeing with him, was eager to warn Arthur of his position. There was no telegraphic communication with the village which was near his farm. She could only write to him, and she did write to him, by that day’s post — having reasons of her own for anxiety, which forbade her to show her letter to Dennis. Well aware of the devoted friendship which united Lord Harry and Arthur Mountjoy — and bearing in mind the newspaper report of the Irish lord’s rash association with the Invincibles — her fears now identified the noble vagabond as the writer of the anonymous letters, which had so seriously excited her godfather’s doubts of his own safety.

When Sir Giles returned, and took her with him to his house, he spoke of his consultation with the Sergeant in terms which increased her dread of what might happen in the future. She was a dull and silent guest, during the interval that elapsed before it would be possible to receive Arthur’s reply. The day arrived — and the post brought no relief to her anxieties. The next day passed without a letter. On the morning of the fourth day, Sir Giles rose later than usual. His correspondence was sent to him from the office, at breakfast-time. After opening one of the letters, he dispatched a messenger in hot haste to the police.

“Look at that,” he said, handing the letter to Iris. “Does the assassin take me for a fool?”

She read the lines that follow:

“Unforeseen events force me, Sir Giles, to run a serious risk. I must speak to you, and it must not be by daylight. My one hope of safety is in darkness. Meet me at the first milestone, on the road to Garvan, when the moon sets at ten o’clock to-night. No need to mention your name. The password is: Fidelity.“

“Do you mean to go?” Iris asked.

“Do I mean to be murdered!” Sir Giles broke out. “My dear child, do pray try to think before you speak. The Sergeant will represent me, of course.”

“And take the man prisoner?” Iris added.

“Certainly!”

With that startling reply, the banker hurried away to receive the police in another room. Iris dropped into the nearest chair. The turn that the affair had now taken filled her with unutterable dismay.

Sir Giles came back, after no very long absence, composed and smiling. The course of proceeding had been settled to his complete satisfaction.

Dressed in private clothes, the Sergeant was to go to the milestone at the appointed time, representing the banker in the darkness, and giving the password. He was to be followed by two of his men who would wait in concealment, within hearing of his whistle, if their services were required. “I want to see the ruffian when he is safely handcuffed,” Sir Giles explained; “and I have arranged to wait for the police, to-night, at my office.”

There was but one desperate way that Iris could now discern of saving the man who had confided in her godfather’s honour, and whose trust had already been betrayed. Never had she loved the outlawed Irish lord — the man whom she was forbidden, and rightly forbidden, to marry — as she loved him at that moment. Let the risk be what it might, this resolute woman had determined that the Sergeant should not be the only person who arrived at the milestone, and gave the password. There was one devoted friend to Lord Harry, whom she could always trust — and that friend was herself.

Sir Giles withdrew, to look after his business at the bank. She waited until the clock had struck the servants’ dinner hour, and then ascended the stairs to her godfather’s dressing-room. Opening his wardrobe, she discovered in one part of it a large Spanish cloak, and, in another part, a high-crowned felt hat which he wore on his country excursions. In the dark, here was disguise enough for her purpose.

As she left the dressing-room, a measure of precaution occurred to her, which she put in action at once. Telling her maid that she had some purchases to make in the town, she went out, and asked her way to Garvan of the first respectable stranger whom she met in the street. Her object was to walk as far as the first milestone, in daylight, so as to be sure of finding it again by night. She had made herself familiar with the different objects on the road, when she returned to the banker’s house.

As the time for the arrest drew nearer, Sir Giles became too restless to wait patiently at home. He went away to the police-office, eager to hear if any new counter-conspiracy had occurred to the authorities.

It was dark soon after eight o’clock, at that time of the year. At nine the servants assembled at the supper-table. They were all downstairs together, talking, and waiting for their meal.

Feeling the necessity of arriving at the place of meeting, in time to keep out of the Sergeant’s way, Iris assumed her disguise as the clock struck nine. She left the house without a living creature to notice her, indoors or out. Clouds were gathering over the sky. The waning moon was only to be seen at intervals, as she set forth on her way to the milestone.