He reached the station just in time to catch an early train to Connacht, and getting into an empty carriage was soon sound asleep, awaking as the train stopped at a Midland junction. As he sat up and stared about him, Geoffrey Keating opened the door and came in. He did not notice the Professor for a few moments as he settled into his seat and lit a cigarette; then, with a look of pleased surprise, he stretched out a hand and greeted him warmly. It appeared that the Professor was the very person he had been wishing to see.
‘You know I am hunting for that scoundrel Moss,’ he said. ‘And I want you to help me.’
‘In what capacity, may I ask?’, demanded the Professor. ‘I am already king’s evidence and secret service agent.’
‘I was near Tlachtga yesterday,’ Keating went on, not noticing the question in the absorption of his own affairs. ‘You know Sorcha is still there, and I went to the palace to make sure she was. I did not see her, and felt rather desperate, and cycled through a forest-road, lost my way, and eventually put up for the night in a small bruighean. An odd thing happened then. Some one came into my room towards morning, and I felt a hand on my shoulder. A man’s voice said in English: ‘Schliemann has not got the books through. Let Moss know.’ And before I was rightly awake the person was out of the room. I sprang up, but he was gone when I got downstairs. The hall door stood open, otherwise I should have thought it was a dream, for not a soul could I see outside. I then decided to find you, and was on my way to Tir-da-glas, hoping to meet you at the ruin. Have you got the stolen vellums? It would be too good if you had.’
The Professor looked through the window. A shower of rain was falling, washing the panes, and dimming his view of the wood through which the train was rushing. He caught a glimpse of a party of huntsmen with dogs and horses in an opening among the trees, one man with a bugle to his lips; then the scene was gone, and the huge trunks and the branches of the primeval forest gathered again in ranks about the window, those in front taking the place of those that fell behind, unending, grey, gnarled and moss-clad, ancient trees that might have sheltered Diarmaid and Grania in their flight; and his mind wandered to a sixteenth-century copy of the saga of their adventures in his possession. Presently he remembered Keating was waiting with impatient eyes for his answer, and he replied in fit and cautious words, for the part the Ambassador was playing must be kept—his instinct and patriotism told him—a secret from the soldier-lover.
‘It is clear to me,’ he added, ‘that some one took the parcel containing manuscripts II (as I shall term the books placed in my room by the Tanist, and which Fraulein Sorcha took, under the impression that they were manuscripts I, the precious vellums). You remember I had them in my hands when I went to look for the cat. I laid them on a garden seat, and on my return from the ruin they were no longer there, and I concluded that the Tanist, or Cormac, or someone had taken them into the house.’
‘What I propose now,’ said Keating, energetically, ‘is that you sound Cormac at once on your return to Tir-da-glas. If the Tanist had found them, you would have heard of it. Cormac may know where Moss is, and you can say that you know a man who has a message for Moss. I HAVE. If Cormac has betrayed his master, he can be bribed again. I will go on to Caislean-an-Barraig now, and meet you to-morrow early at the ruin.’
To this proposal the Professor at first objected; in the end, however, he yielded to Keating’s persuasions. As he intended to open the entrance to the dungeon the next day, he did not want to be hampered by his presence, and he warned him that the Historian would certainly visit the scene of the excavation.
‘Oh, I shall be on my guard,’ the young man answered. ‘We must find where Moss is, that is the key of the whole thing. I shall then go and give him the message. Schliemann has not got the books through. Let Moss know. He’ll think I’m one of the thieves. I noticed a young man leaving the forest inn early in the morning, and he had the next room to mine. The other man mistook the doors.’
‘Schliemann has not got the books through,’ slowly repeated the Professor. ‘Does the message convey anything fresh to your mind?’
‘I can’t say it does, as you told me they gave you the bogus books.’
‘Then, I think,’ said the Professor, ‘that the message shows that Moss and the man who gave me the parcel both thought it contained manuscripts I. Moss was under the impression that he was sending the valuable vellums out of the country.’
Keating was struck for a moment by the suggestion, but on second thought said it was impossible for Moss to have made such a mistake. He had seen the manuscripts, and it was highly unlikely that he would fall into an error about them. Moreover, the Professor had watched him seize and carry them away. They were in his possession still, and it was a more reasonable idea that the parcel was meant to deceive the police.
As the Professor got out of the train he saw the young chauffeur on the platform; he came up and touched his cap. The Tanist had wired, he said, that the Sai was returning. The Professor followed him to the car not unpleased to see him. ‘So you have not gone yet,’ he remarked as he sat down.
‘Not yet, noble one,’ the chauffeur answered. ‘But I hope to soon.’
On reaching Tir-da-glas, Schliemann was warmly welcomed by the Historian, who, with old-time courtesy, refused to hear his experiences till he had had lunch. The Professor then told what had happened, omitting that part of the story connected with the Embassy. When he mentioned MacSuibne’s suspicion of Cormac, MacFirbis was shocked that such a suggestion should have been made.
‘I would place my life and honour in Cormac’s hands!’ he exclaimed. ‘Cormac! The idea is an insult to my senses, and to the character of my old and faithful friend.’
He rang the bell; when Cormac entered he bade him take a seat. ‘Now, listen, my old friend,’ he said as the servant obeyed with an air that was both dignified and respectful, ‘the detective, MacSuibne, thinks that you have been bribed by Moss. That is why I have asked you to be seated, to show that you and I are equals in honour.’
For a moment Cormac’s face expressed surprise; then a humorous smile spread over his lips. ‘The blessing of God on you, Staruidhe (Historian),’ he said, and rose to his feet. ‘My master of the noble heart and high blood. These young policemen are often foolish, and may God give them more sense.’
The Professor admired the humour and dignity with which he brushed the suspicion aside as a folly not worth his attention. ‘MacSuibne is wrong, quite wrong,’ he thought.
‘I now ask for your opinion, Cormac,’ said the Historian. The books that were placed by the Tanist in my honoured guest’s room—an act which covers me with shame, and for which again I crave that he forgive a young and hot-headed man these books were taken thence by some person unknown, and eventually got into the hands of this person, Moss, for his agent gave them yesterday as a parcel of jewels to Sai Schliemann, when my honoured friend found it necessary from news he had received to set out for the Continent. I am afraid that this delay may cause you inconvenience, and I can only ask that you will not sacrifice your affairs for mine.’
The Professor demurred. ‘They are arranged,’ he replied somewhat shortly.
‘You are truly kind,’ said MacFirbis; then continuing to address Cormac he went on—‘You are wise and shrewd, Cormac. How do you account for these books getting into Moss’s hands?’
‘Easy to tell, Historian,’ Cormac answered emphatically. ‘This devil Moss went prowling into the rooms after locking the Sai into the library, and snatched up the parcel and was off.’
‘That is my opinion, too. You can now go, Cormac, and fill yourself a glass from the King’s wine.’
Later in the afternoon the Professor strolled on the terrace. A heavy fall of rain had kept him indoors till then, and he had spent the time in the library. He turned presently into the yew walk, and walked slowly down it. The twilight was gathering; the twitter of the finches as they settled into the branches made light, keen notes against the monotone of a low and even wind. The clouds were broken, moving from the west in great masses, building themselves as they went into gigantic aerial duns and mounds, black and grey, brown and silvered, from which rose fantastic air-born shapes that floated into the clearer spaces of the sky. As he came out of the paved semi-circle by the river the breeze rose and whipped the black water into ripples. Agleam from the afterglow suddenly pierced the parting vapour, and flinging itself across the park and the stream, touched the keep. He stood still, and his eyes rested on the building. Through a lancet window he saw the fingers of a hand, or thought he saw them, for the next moment they were gone. Motionless he waited, surprised, watching.
The sound of oars on the water behind him, sent his glance backward. A boat was coming up the river with two men. One rowed, the other sat in the stern, and wore the cap and silk robe of an Ollamh; a visitor manifestly for the Historian. His gaze turned again to the keep, but no fingers re-appeared on the weathered stones of the slit. ‘I will risk wet feet,’ he muttered to himself, ‘to see if I have been deceived,’ and strode on to the grass. As he gained the castle mound he heard someone following. A bird at the same moment flew out over his head, emerging from the window, and he stood still with upturned face to stare at the opening. A minute later a voice addressed him from behind. He turned and saw Moss.
The surprise of the encounter kept him tongue-tied for a moment. Then a great heat and indignation seized him. With a crimson face he sprang forward and caught the man’s arm. Old memories of student life, of the gymnasium, of pugilistic encounters, of duels, rushed upon him with the freshness of yesterday. ‘Thief!’ he cried.
‘You forget your part, sir,’ Moss replied calmly. ‘I have but a short time to spare. Our conversation must be in a less open spot than where we now stand.’
‘It does not matter if all the world saw us,’ exclaimed the Professor. ‘I proclaim you a thief. I saw you steal those invaluable vellums. I was in the library, powerless then to prevent the theft. But I am strong enough now to insist upon their restoration. If you do not give back the books, my arm is not yet that of an old man, and my voice shall summon the Historian and his household.’
‘This bluff is excellent and I’d admire it more,’ replied Moss, ‘if my time was not limited. But we have now to talk sense and business. I am aware that you are not the person you are taken for here. And I must ask you to follow me into the ruin when I shall explain matters.’
He freed his arm with a violent jerk, and went through the archway. The wind rustled and blew wide the silk cloak that formed his disguise; his long legs leaped the fallen rubble; and looking back he beckoned to Schliemann. His coolness and audacity astonished the Professor, but the cry of alarm on his lips remained unsounded. Was it possible that the American knew whom he was, and that at last one man in Ireland had discovered his identity? The thought rushed through his mind with the force and speed of a cherished hope about to be realised. It checked his wrath—it stirred emotions lulled till that instant; he felt like a prisoner enlarged.
When he stood before Moss it was with folded arms and compressed lips, but his eyes were lighted up and expectant! The American pushed his cap off his brow, enlarging the view of a narrow sallow-skinned forehead, barred by two deep-cut lines; his thin lips had a purplish hue; his teeth were even and white with a gleam of gold here and there.
‘You were kind enough, Herr Professor,’ he said, drawing out a cigar case and selecting one,’ to carry some books for me, but failed to catch the steamer. It did not matter in the least, for the books were not the books. A mistake was made.’
‘Allow me to state that I was under the belief the packet contained quite other matter,’ replied Schliemann firmly. ‘Had I thought that you had the audacity, the impudence, to seek my assistance, I should not have driven to the steamer but to the nearest police-station.’
Moss offered him a cigar. ‘It is growing dark,’ he remarked, ‘and looks like more rain. Now, listen to me calmly, Professor. My friends in Berlin have let me know what you are. I am not going to use the knowledge against you, but I am going to use it for my own benefit. I have lost the ancient books, and you must find them for me.’
‘This is, indeed, amazing insolence, Mr. Moss,’ The Professor spoke slowly, deliberately, in English. ‘You must understand at once that I refuse to find these precious vellums for you. But I am delighted to learn that you have lost them.’
‘I expected your answer,’ said Moss. ‘But you’ll have to find them. You see, I know who you are.’
‘We have reached the point I am most anxious to arrive at. You know who I am. You know then that I am the philologist and Celticist, Professor Schliemann of Berlin, a man who will certainly not abet you in a theft.’
Moss smoked in silence for a few moments. ‘All that is tall talk,’ he said, ‘and useless. I have told you I know who you are. I have but to let one of my agents give a hint of this knowledge to the police, and you will be arrested, and your Government will make all haste it can to swear it never heard of you.’
The Professor took a step forward. His patience and philosophy at once and abruptly failed him. His disappointment was great. Had it been less acute, his sense of humour might have lightened the moment for him. ‘Fool!’ he thundered.
Moss drew back. ‘This anger is useless,’ he said. ‘If you are holding out for a price, I am ready to give you a handsome sum.’
The Professor stared at him for some moments. Then, in the midst of his anger, he saw that Moss was standing on the new made-flower-bed, and that his foot had crushed the black rose-tree. He turned away abruptly, and crossed to the other side of the ruin.
There he presently recovered his equanimity. Moss had lost the books, as he had suggested to Keating, and it was important to learn how he had done so. His country’s honour was also involved in the matter. A strong sense of patriotism awoke within him, and for the time made the mistake about his identity take a minor place in his thoughts. Three things were now clear; the recovery of his notebook and the manuscripts; absolute silence as regards the Ambassador’s commission; and a speedy return to his own country.
He came back to Moss, who no longer stood on the flower-bed. ‘This loss you complain of,’ he said shortly. ‘Let me learn how it occurred.’
Moss took the question as a surrender. The spot had grown very dark. Not only had twilight fallen, but the sky overhead was black with clouds. The rain began to come down in big drops. ‘We must stand within the keep,’ he remarked.
A thunderous rush of rain followed his words. The two men hurried to the shelter. The Professor, next to the inner wall, glanced upward. The stairway was in darkness except where a faint glimmer thrown from a slit showed an upper step. Then he looked at the tall cloak-clad figure by his side. Moss held the cigar between his fingers; the perfume of the tobacco filled the place.
‘You will give me your attention, Professor,’ he said, putting a hand in his pocket. ‘By a smart act I got the vellums, as I told you I should. In four hours I found I could not get out of Ireland. In five that neither could the vellums pass. I was left free to move about in the kingdom, but every exit was watched. I soon saw that the books were not safe in my hands. My plan was to get them either to New York or Berlin. Your Government would have to stand my friend. The books were in danger, and I left them in the care of a raw hand. MacSuibne and his crowd are so devilish well-informed and can reel off the name of every art thief in Europe, that I had to trust this man. I bribed him—that is, paid him handsomely. My people saw a chance of getting them through by sending you back to Berlin. You were to think the parcel held important political papers. MacSuibne got wind of this by one of his detectives—the chauffeur who drove you to Tlachtga—and was at the steamer at the same moment as yourself. But he was outwitted. The raw hand—who was paid a handsome price when he handed over the books—handed over the wrong books. Now you must speak to the man and make him give you the ancient vellums. You are to leave them at the German embassy. The Ambassador will be supposed to know nothing about them, but they will get across to Berlin.’
‘Your concise tale interests me,’ said Schliemann. ‘But it appears you have omitted the most important details, the name of the raw hand and a description of his person.’
Moss did not answer; he suddenly assumed an attitude of attention. ‘There is someone in the Castle,’ he remarked, after he had listened for some moments. The Professor drew closer to the stair; the idea of being found with Moss was repugnant to him. He sank on the step; he even crouched. Moss peered through the doorway. ‘It is my boatman,’ he exclaimed. ‘Now, what the devil does the fellow want?
He went out. ‘I’ll return in a minute,’ he said, looking back into the darkness of the keep. The Professor made no reply, and Moss hurried away through the rain.
His footsteps died off across the grass-grown courtyard, but the Professor did not move. Still crouched, with fixed gaze, he appeared to be afraid to follow. Some minutes passed; then, high up the keep came the sound of descending feet, and a minute later his rigid figure was knocked aside. A man stumbled through the keep. Schliemann rose, and drawing a long breath, leant by the wall for a moment.
The rain was lighter as he came out and the clouds parting. He could see the vacant courtyard and the dark outer wall of the Castle against the moving wrack. But Moss had vanished. Then, as he glanced to left and right, he heard a man cursing by his side. A figure bent over the flower-bed; it was MacBuan who had discovered his broken rose-tree.