F

IV.

OR some nights thereafter, when darkness had fallen, the tinsmith issued mysteriously from his home, with pick and shovel, carrying a large canvas sack, and his return was invariably with the crowing of the cock at early dawn. All day long while hammering, cutting and soldering at his tinware, he wore an anxious and abstracted air, which worried his daughter. There was something on his mind, something sinister in his mysterious coming and going at unearthly hours. But the young girl refrained from questioning, hoping that in time he would tell her all.

On the fourth night she was awake when he returned-fingering her rosary in bed and beset by strange forebodings that weighed heavily on her heart.

For a long time she listened to the man shuffling heavily about the kitchen. She heard him try the bolts of the door and make sure that they were fast; then there was a space of silence, broken only by his labored breathing. She could endure the suspense no longer and, getting out of bed, she went noiselessly down the stairs, sconce in hand, her rich hair streaming over her shoulders.

At the foot of the stairs a strange sight met her affrighted gaze. Her father was on his knees, bending over a hole that yawned black in the floor. A loosened flag-stone told the girl the secret of the hiding-place. A guttering candle on the stone brought his red head out in startling relief against the surrounding darkness, and glimmered on articles that wrung an involuntary scream from the girl's lips. There were chalices and patens of gold standing about the floor within reach of the man's hand. Chalices and patens that spoke

of some dreadful sacrilege. Where could he have gotten them? Or had he broken into and robbed the cathedral of its sacred treasure?

The girl's scream brought the man. to his knees, erect with white face and trembling hand. For a moment his frightened eyes rested on his daughter, standing there like an accusing angel. Then his face darkened and his brows came together in an angry scowl.

"What does this mean?" he asked hoarsely. "I thought you were in bed."

"I was, but I couldn't sleep, thinking of you. Oh, father, father, where have you been or what have you been doing?" she sobbed, pointing to the chalices. sparkling on the floor. "Not the cathedral, not the cathedral, I hope." The man laughed.

cathedral."

"Then where?"

"No, not the

"I wish women would mind their own business," he said, getting to his feet, and crossing to her. "Come, girl, get you to bed and don't mind me.'

"But, father," she pleaded, "this is my business, when I see you meddling with such things. Where did you get them?"

"Well, if you must know and if 'twill be ease to your mind, I got them in Kilcolman," he said.

"The treasure of Kilcolman?" she gasped, a shudder running through her delicate frame. "Oh, father, father, put them back, put them back, I beg of you. There's a curse on them-a curse to meddle with them-the holy Mass cups of the martyred priests."

Irish tradition is strangely reliable. and confirmatory of Irish history. For a long time popular legend around Derreen pointed to a treasure of altar vessels near the old abbey of Kilcolman. It had been buried in the adjoining churchyard when the soldiers of Eliza

beth were devastating the holy places of Ireland. There it had lain all these centuries, its hiding-place a secret that perished with the martyred monks who had been put to death by the Lord Deputy and his troopers. But tradition had pointed to a certain spot in the moat. of an old rath, marked by two ancient yews. A curse guarded the vessels from spoliation or profanation at the hands of the greedy, and all these years they had lain undisturbed in the ground, until Sherlock had unearthed them. With them he would counterfeit the money for his daughter's dower. For her he had braved the curse and laid sacrilegious hands on the treasure of the Lord. This, then, explained his mysterious midnight absences. Locating and digging for these had taken him abroad night after night.

"Oh, father, father, put them back," pleaded the tearful girl. "They'll bring bad luck upon the house- -on you and me. Put them back in the name of God."

The father was disturbed. His own faith was too strong not to cause him misgivings. He had heard so often that whosoever profaned the treasure would be accursed. So, wavering in mind, between fear of retaining them and the cupidity that had prompted their discovery, he assured his daughter that he would replace them in the abbey lands. This assurance calmed the girl and she went to her room, while Sherlock stowed them carefully away in the hole in the floor.

But the following night, while his daughter slept, he broke the vessels into small fragments and melt.d them into a solid mass in the crucible. Then night after night he was busy with his moulds. and dies and chemicals, melting and pouring the metal, filing and polishing. It was necessarily slow work, for he dare not attempt it by day, while his daughter was about; she, guileless and confiding soul, having been led to believe that

he had replaced the treasure in Kilcolman, by seeing him go ostentatiously forth one night with a bulging bag on his shoulder, containing, she thought, the holy Mass cups.

The November fair was drawing near. So far no word or suggestion of marriage had been broached to Margaret, either by her father or Frayne on his frequent visits. But, as the days wore on, Margaret noticed that her father was growing more and more moody and morose. He had thinned visibly in the last couple of weeks and the burnished hair had suddenly taken on a tinge of gray about the bushy temples. Plainly there was something on his mind, some great and secret worry that oppressed him.

It was the eve of the fair and, true to his word, Sherlock went to meet Frayne at the hotel. The latter was nervously expectant.

"Well, have you the goods?" he asked abruptly.

"Not all," sighed the tinsmith.

"I hope you're not fooling me," growled the Fighter.

"I did the best I could. I have four hundred, but you'll have to wait another fortnight for the rest." And he counted over the spurious coin.

"How about the girl's settlement?" asked Frayne.

"Not ready yet, either," sighed the tinsmith. "But 'twill be in time."

"Look here, Sherlock," said Frayne, with contracted brows, "I've an option on that farm from Sandford, until this day a fortnight. That day the option expires. Can I count on you to make good then?"

"I think you can, but it's a bigger job than I thought. I'm almost sorry I

ever undertook it."

"Now, Sherlock," growled Frayne, "I want that cash. Either the balance of our agreement or the hundred and fifty sovereigns I gave you, here in this room, at this hour, two weeks from now."

All too swiftly fled the days, and once more Sherlock went moodily to his rendezvous with Frayne at the hotel. But to-night there was a stranger in the room, whom Frayne introduced as his partner, who had come down from Dublin to see him.

"You may speak plainly in his presence," said Frayne; "he's in my confidence and knows all."

Sherlock produced his leather wallet. "I'm sorry to disappoint you," he said. "I did the best I could, but there's a hundred yet missing."

He

"Then hand me over the money I gave you," said Frayne quietly. There was a menace in his tone that unnerved Sherlock, burly giant though he was. glanced nervously at the door which was locked, the key being in Frayne's pocket. If these men intended violence he was clearly in their power, though he would give a good account of himself if necessary.

"Come now, Frayne, be reasonable," he went on. "That job takes time-more time than I thought. I've done my best and you'll have to wait a little longer." "How long?"

"Another fortnight," said Sherlock.

"Another fortnight, and the option on the farm expiring to-morrow? But, maybe, Sandford will be satisfied with a hundred more, or so, on account."

"Never fear; he'll be satisfied," smiled Sherlock hopefully. "Buyers with ready money aren't so plentiful in Ireland to-day."

"Well, now, take this from me," said Frayne, eyeing the tinsmith and speaking between closed lips. "This is the last time. If you fool me this time-" Sherlock thought that the threat implied was his denunciation to the police

as a counterfeiter; but this would involve his accuser equally with himself. So he dismissed the thought.

"No reneging this time, mind," said Frayne, as he unlocked the door. "I'll be at your house in the lane this night a fortnight and look for a final settlement."

Phil Flynn and Tim Casey were at the bar of the hotel when the tinsmith passed through from the room upstairs. They saw him, without being seen.

"That man's worried," said Tim, "whatever's the matter with him. Ho! here's the cause," he whispered, catching sight of Frayne and his companion, as they followed presently and took places at the bar, involved in some engrossing conversation.

The men did not notice the youths, Frayne turning his back upon Tim, as he leaned his elbow on the bar and faced his companion.

"I'll kill him, sure as my name is French-I'll kill him like a dog if he fools me," said Frayne to his friend.

Tim had overheard him. "So you're on the killing game, eh?" he smiled to himself, "and you're name's French, as I thought. You'll bear watching, my bold Fighter, and the game may be closer to you than you think."

Then, taking Phil's arm, he strode. from the place, taking care that Frayne should not see his face.

For some days thereafter, Casey haunted the post office, on the look for American letters. Then, late one afternoon, he burst in upon Phil Flynn, as that young man was turning the box of a cart-wheel on his lathe.

"Musha, you're welcome, Tim," smiled Phil; "is it news you have that you come in like the big wind?"

"Tis news, an' good news, me boy," laughed Tim. "Listen, Phil! While you've been breakin' your heart about that golden-haired girl in the lane, I've been busy saving her."

"Saving her?" asked Phil.

"Yes, saving her.

That man, the Fighter, is a fraud. I thought I knew him, but I wanted to make sure before exposing him. He's never been an

officer in the Sixty-ninth-no, nor a private. I have a letter from the Colonel to prove it; and, what's more, he's an embezzler. He robbed his partner in New York, drew every cent from the bank and skipped with it; and what's more yet, he deserted a wife and child there. But his game is up. Come on, my boy, put on your coat and let's go to the lane. These letters here will open Sherlock's eyes."

"That's the greatest news I've heard in a year," laughed Phil, slipping on hat and coat. "You're a great detective, Tim, if it's true."

"True, every word," smiled Tim. "Great Scott, but I'd like to meet the Fighter face to face."

Tim was like to have his wish granted, for, it being the evening agreed upon by the counterfeiter, Frayne had preceded him to the lane, escorted by his supposed partner.

This time the tinsmith was ready for him; the absence of some twenty pounds, he told himself, would make little difference in the whole amount.

"All but twenty pounds," he had whispered to Frayne, when that worthy. appeared. "We'll discuss things after supper. In the meantime, there's your colleen. Doesn't she look pretty?"

She did look pretty, and Frayne seemed pleased with the turn affairs had taken. When supper was over, and while Margaret was busy washing the dishes, the tinsmith and Frayne held a whispered tete-a-tete by the fire.

"Maggie," at length the father spoke, clearing his throat, "Maggie, alanna, I want you to listen to me a minute."

Margaret instinctively felt that the crisis in her life had come and turned, white as a lily, to face the men.

"I'm gettin' old, Maggie, and you're ot gettin' any younger. It's time you

thought of settlin' down in life and takin' a husband."

"A husband?" blurted the girl. "I don't want a husband-"

"It all depends on who the lucky man is," laughed her father. "But what do you say to my friend, Mr. Frayne?"

"Mr. Frayne?" murmured the girl, the blood suffusing her face. "No, father, I'm not thinking of marriage yet a while," she whispered, all atremble as she fingered the hem of her apron.

"But you'll have to think of it sooner or later, and what girl could desire a better husband than this gentleman?".

"I'm afraid I'll have to refuse you this time, father," murmured Margaret, timidly.

"Refuse me? Disobey me?" said the father. He was getting angry, for he had not counted on this, not having consulted the girl's feelings. It was the law of his caste—a law venerable by reason of its long, unquestioned authority. But there was something of quiet dignity, of unalterable firmness of purpose, in the girl's tone that turned the man from persuasion to command.

"Do you talk of disobeying me?" he said harshly.

"I've never disobeyed you before, sir, but in this I must."

"Thunder and turf, girl," he roared, with blazing eyes, "do you want me to turn you out of doors?"

"I don't think you'd do that, father. 'Tis not like you to do so cruel a thing," she answered softly. "But I'm afraid I'd have to go, before I could obey you in this."

He was not harsh by nature, and was hurt by his rudeness to this delicate and beautiful child. Once more he tried persuasion.

"Look you here, girl, Mr. Frayne will make you happy. He's a good man, a successful man, an officer in the American army. He will give you every comfort a girl can desire. He will put you in a good home on a fine farm. You've

just bought one of the finest farms in Ireland, haven't you?"

Hitherto Frayne had not spoken, anxious to test the girl's feelings before urging his own suit.

"Yes, Miss Sherlock-Margaret," he stammered, rising and approaching her. "I love you and wish to make you happy."

The girl shrank from him and leaned against the door of a cupboard, hiding her face in her apron. She was sobbing softly.

"The farm? Where is it?" she asked. She did not know why she asked the question, but in it Frayne saw a gleam of hope.

"It is the Higgins farm," he said triumphantly, for it was the finest holding in Costello.

"The Higgins farm?" echoed Margaret. "An evicted farm? You must know, sir, that I could never live on an evicted farm?"

"An evicted farm?" gasped her father. "You should have told me of this before, Mr. Frayne."

To take "an evicted farm," or a farm from which a tenant had been dispossessed, was a crime in the eyes of the peasantry.

"Twould bring disgrace on us," argued the father. "However," he added, seeing that he had gone too far to retreat, "I leave it to herself. what I could."

I've done

"How dare you, French?" he went on. "You, a married man already, an embezzler and an imposter?"

"French?" sneered Frayne, when he had recovered himself. "Who are you, pray?" he went on contemptuously, eyeing Tim from head to foot.

an

"Yes, French, not Frayne," swered Tim quietly. "William French, son of Mary Frayne, wife of Michael French, late of New York."

Frayne winced before the accusation. "You're mad," he sneered. "Who is he, Mr. Sherlock?"

"Mr. Sherlock knows me and my people," said Tim quietly. "Listen, Mr. Sherlock." And the young man produced three letters which he began to read. "Listen and judge for yourself. The first is from my cousin, this fellow's wife in New York.

66

"Eighth Avenue,
""New York, Oct. 14, 1880.

'Dear Cousin Timothy :-I'm glad you have found my husband, William French. I am sending you his photograph as you request. I know that he called himself Frayne here in New York, since he deserted me and my boy two years ago. That was his mother's name. We were married five years ago in St. Francis Xavier's Church in Sixteenth Street by Father John Murphy. My married life was never happy, but I am willing to forgive all if Will will return to me. Please ask him to come back and assure him of my love.

"Your loving cousin,

"Ellen Casey French.' "That's number one," smiled the young man, handing the photograph to Dominic Sherlock; "now hear this.

"St. Francis Xavier's Church,
"West 16th Street,

"New York, Oct. 12, 1880. "My Dear Mr. Casey:-Our parish register shows that on September 8, 1875, William Frayne French was mar