The man jumped off, touched his hat, and handed her a note.
She tore it open, and glanced through it in the light of the bicycle lamp. Then she crumpled it up and threw it into the ditch with a quick, impatient movement.
“All right,” she said. “Good night.”
The gardener mounted his bicycle again and moved off.
“Well?” said the old man.
“Father Mahon’s called away suddenly. It’s from his housekeeper. He’ll only be back in time for the first Mass tomorrow.”
The other nodded, three or four times, as if in assent.
“Why do you do that?” asked the girl suddenly.
“It is what I should have expected to happen.”
“What! Father Mahon?—Do you mean it … it is arranged?”
“I know nothing. It may be coincidence. Speak no more of it. You have the facts to think of.”
About them as they walked back in silence lay the quiet spring night.
From the direction of the hamlet came the banging of a door, then voices wishing good night, and the sound of footsteps.
The steps passed the end of the lane and died away again.
Over the trees to the right were visible the high twisted chimney of the old house where the terror dwelt.
“Two points then to remember,” said the voice in the darkness—“courage and love. Can you remember?”