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"His name is Crawshay," Jocelyn replied. "He is an ex-Scotland Yard man who came over here to work for the English Secret Service." "What does he want here?" she whispered, a little hoarsely. Jocelyn raised his cap as he turned away. "Me," he answered. "He'll probably be disappointed, though."
Long, green waves came rolling in from the Atlantic. Distant rocks gleamed purple in the gathering sunshine. The green of the fields grew deeper, the colouring on the moors warmer. Crawshay lit a cigarette and leaned back against a rock. "Over in America," he observed, "I heard all sorts of stories about you.
"I have no doubt that the New York papers have some wonderful headlines 'How an Englishman catches the steamer! or 'An English diplomatist, eager to fight' and all that sort of thing. But apart from the spectacular side of it, I don't suppose they consider your adventure of national interest." "On the contrary, it is the development of a new era," Crawshay replied, with dignity.
"I am sure I shall like to come very much," she said sweetly, "but if you go on asking me questions forever, I am afraid you won't come any nearer solving the problem of how that box got into my trunk, or how those bills got changed into those queer-looking little slips of papers. However, that of course is your affair." The detective departed with a stiff bow. Crawshay, however, lingered.
I can just breathe this air, wander about on the beach here, walk on that moorland, watch the sea, poke about amongst my old ruins, send for the priest and talk to him, get my tenants together and hear what they have to say I can do these things, Crawshay, and breathe the atmosphere of it all down into my lungs and be content. It's just Ireland that's all.
It seemed to me that she was implacable. The war has changed many things." "You are right," Crawshay admitted. "In many respects it has changed the English character. We look now a little further afield. We have lost some of our stubborn over-confidence. We have grown in many respects more spiritual.
Crawshay this time took up the receiver, and Brightman the spare one which hung by the side. It was Henshaw speaking. "Miss Beverley has just gone in to dinner," he announced. "She is accompanied by Mr. Jocelyn Thew and a young officer in the uniform of a Flight Commander." "What is his name?" Crawshay asked. "I have had no opportunity of finding out yet," was the reply.
I am one of those sort of people," Crawshay confessed meditatively, "who rise to a bet as to no other thing in life. I suppose it comes from our inherited sporting instincts. I accepted the bet and here I am." "In time to save the British Army, eh?" Brand observed. "In time to take my rightful place amongst the defenders of my country," was the dignified rebuke.
He shuffled away, once more the perfect prototype of the malade imaginaire. Jocelyn Thew watched him in silence until he had disappeared. Then he turned and seated himself by the girl's side. "I find myself," he remarked ruminatively, "still a little troubled as to the precise amount of intelligence which our friend Mr. Crawshay might be said to possess.
Crawshay found himself a popular hero when at a few minutes before eleven o'clock the next morning he made his appearance on deck. With little regard to the weather, which was fine and warm, he was clad in a thick grey suit and a voluminous overcoat.
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