He lay awake for a long time that night. He had been distinctly threatened, and was forced to obey MacSuibne. He thought of it again in the morning when he awoke. And all the while the vellums were in the neighbourhood of Tir-da-glas, and his notebook in the dungeon. He must see MacBuan before his departure and make terms with him. He might offer the gardener one hundred pounds, he thought; the Ambassador would certainly be willing to give that sum. Then there was Geoffrey; he would be at the ruins early that morning; and it was impossible to say what he would do if he did not find him there.

The sun shone on the terrace as he went out; and there was frost in the air. On the other side of the river a horse-chestnut had changed the gold and green of its leaves to a vivid rose. A group of dahlias in a border near, hung down their heads, sickly and brown from the stroke of the night. Several of the gardeners were at work, but MacBuan was not in sight. Three men with spades and pickaxes stood near the yew walk. They touched their caps and looked at him as if they expected orders.

At the same moment a servant brought him a telegram. He opened it with a quickened pulse. Anna, that staid, middle-aged German widow, had she at last replied? No; it was only Geoffrey Keating who had wired, his disappointed eyes told him. He had been ordered to rejoin his regiment at once, and could not meet him that day.

Schliemann crushed the paper in his hand. That matter was settled then, and there was now only MacBuan to be interviewed. The man would keep a silent tongue about the absurd mistake that he was a spy. The theft of the dog’s body would seal his lips. He could be managed. Money had bought him before, money would buy him again. He had shown cunning in his attempt to deceive Moss. But Moss had no hold over him. Midir’s body under the black rose tree gave the Professor that hold. He would defer the interview till he had seen Moss.

At eleven he and the Tanist set out for the station. As they motored down the avenue, they saw another motor approaching. Its pennant showed it was one for hire. A man wrapped in a thick cloak sat by the chauffeur’s side; and the car came slowly, a pace that seemed in keeping with the dignified figure of the visitor. As the two automobiles met, Schliemann recognised the Ollamh Keating. ‘Now, in the name of heaven!’ he thought, ‘what has brought him here?’

At a word from the Tanist their car stopped; the station car did the same. The Tanist bared his head, and the Professor raised his hat. The Ollamh’s face was framed between the high, furred collar of the cloak and the peak of the hood. It was solemn, and reddened from the air.

‘A greeting to you, Ollamh,’ said the Tanist.

‘The blessing of God and Mary to you,’ the Ollamh replied, bowing coldly, but courteously. He took no notice of the Professor.

‘You are kind enough to visit Tir-da-glas,’ said the Tanist. ‘May I welcome you in the Historian’s name and in my own, his Tanist.’

‘It is two hundred and seventy years since a Keating has put foot in Tir-da-glas,’ answered the Ollamh. ‘And my visit to-day is paid to my foe, the Historian of Connacht.’

A smile crossed the Tanist’s well-bred face, too slight to be noticed by the Ollamh whose outlook was somewhat hampered by the overhanging hood.

‘Is it a truce?’ he asked, courteously.

‘For the moment. But I detain you.’

‘Not at all. Your visit appears so important—for, as you say, no Keating has put foot in Tir-da-glas for nearly three hundred years—that I conclude some matter of the highest moment has led to your coming.’

‘A point of honour,’ replied the Ollamh. ‘Pardon me if I proceed, as I must return to Dungeanain by the next train.’

‘Then I shall do myself the honour to escort you to the house.’

The car moved to one side to allow the station motor to pass. Then turning, it followed, overtaking the first car before it reached the door. The Tanist sprang out, and joining the stiff figure of the Ollamh, led him into the house. The Professor walked in the rear, the Ollamh having appeared not to see him.

Cormac met them in the hall. Too great a master of his countenance to allow it to show his astonishment, he led them to the largest dining-room. But his rigid back, his slow, decided step told that he felt to the full the tremendous solemnity of the visit. When they had entered, he closed the door swiftly behind them, and went to his master.

The three men remained standing. The Tanist offered the Ollamh a chair, but he refused to sit down, and stood in the middle of the room, his eyes on the door. The Professor made no attempt to attract an attention which was so obviously fixed elsewhere. A remark upon the sudden frost uttered by the Tanist received no answer.

Then the door opened again, and the Historian crossed the threshold. There was something noble, kingly, Schliemann thought, in his air. Behind him Cormac came, carrying a gold salver in his hand, upon which stood a taper-necked bottle and a crystal glass.

‘You are welcome, noble Ollamh,’ said MacFirbis, bowing. ‘I welcome you to Tir-da-glas. And may God the Son be your life.’

Keating bowed. ‘I thank you for your greeting, noble Staruidhe (Historian),’ he replied. ‘And may God and Mary be with you.’

MacFirbis took the crystal glass in one hand and the taper-necked bottle in the other. ‘Health to you, noble Ollamh,’ he said; and filling the glass with sparkling wine, brought it to Keating.

The Ollamh bowed, but did not take it.

‘I may not drink in my foe’s house, noble Staruidhe,’ he answered. ‘A point of honour has brought me here.’

‘I had hoped,’ said MacFirbis, ‘that peace is better than war between two old men who are drawing towards the meadow of the dead—though God grant it may be long before you pass—that we might lay aside the feud of our houses.’

‘In one way alone can it be done,’ replied Keating.

MacFirbis put the glass and the bottle on the salver. ‘If you will not drink in my house,’ he said, ‘will you not be seated?’

‘That, too, the vow of my house forbids. I came here as one honourable foeman dealing with another. Some days ago my son, in fulfilment of the vow of his house, placed, as he thought, in my hands, the Psalter of Tara and the Codex Dromsneachta. I, too, supposed they were the books. I did not remove the paper in which they were wrapped. I would not look at them. I sent them back, for they had been taken treacherously from you.’

MacFirbis’s eyes kindled. And how did your son get these books, noble Ollamh?’  

‘From the treacherous guest within your house, from that man.’ Keating’s finger pointed to the Professor.

Schliemann had been waiting for this avowal through the formal courtesies of the two old men. From the moment that the Ollamh had ignored his presence, he had guessed his errand. His own high sense of honour was shocked at the position in which his desire for the books had placed him. He felt all the anguish of a criminal.

‘It is soon told,’ continued Keating, ‘the part this base man has played. My son, to my grief and shame, loves your daughter. Yet he was not quite lost to honour. Before the fatal step was taken which would unite a Keating with a MacFirbis, he made an effort to fulfil his vow. Your hand placed my vellums, the Psalter of Tara and the Codex Dromsneachta, in the hands of your guest, and he gave them to my son—for what recompense I have not learnt, thus breaking the confidence you had reposed in him. But he deceived my unhappy and dishonoured boy, giving him two modern or medieval vellums—a mistake Geoffrey would have instantly discovered had he not entered the army instead of the noble College of Ollamhs. My vellums, the Codex Dromsneachta and the Psalter of Tara, this man has hidden or sent out of the country, since I know he had these two books, my property, in his possession.’

MacFirbis had listened in dignified silence, but with kindled eyes.

‘I thank you, noble Ollamh,’ he said, ‘for refusing to receive my vellums, the Psalter of Tara and the Codex Dromsneachta, as you believed the books to be when your son brought them to you. And I thank you for taking this tedious journey to act, as you conceived, as one honourable foeman dealing with another. For these things you have my gratitude; and it is a grief to me that you will neither drink nor rest in my house, as foemen in a truce may do. I, too, have felt the folly of my child in giving her heart to a Keating. And some strange mistake, some slanderous word, has led you to charge my friend and honoured guest, whose fame you cannot be ignorant of, with an act committed by a notorious person, Amos Moss, of Chicago, who is under arrest now. And I trust and believe that in order to escape a long term of imprisonment, he will confess where he has hidden my vellums, the Psalter of Tara and the Codex Dromsneachta. Sai Schliemann,’ the Historian turned to the Professor, ‘I sincerely apologise for the insult which, by a mistake, the Ollamh Keating has offered you.’

‘Would it not be well, in face of the regrettable charge,’ said the Tanist, in his cold, smooth voice, ‘if Sai Schliemann at once denied having given the modern vellums or the Psalter of Tara and the Codex Dromsneachta to Captain Keating. The Ollamh’s interesting information throws further light on the history of the second vellums. We learn that they have been in Captain Keating’s hands. But the gap between the moment when the Ollamh returned them to him and of that when they were found in Sai Schliemann’s possession still remains a blank.’

The Professor was aware that the Tanist looked at him. His words stirred his ever combative nature; the sense of guilt left him at once.

‘I will deny it immediately,’ he said promptly. ‘I did not give the books to Captain Keating. It was not my hand that removed them from my room where you in your detective capacity had placed them, Tanist. Neither did I give those invaluable books, the Psalter of Tara and the Codex Dromsneachta, to him.’

‘My friend,’ said the Historian, ‘it is unnecessary for you to say another word on this painful subject. The Ollamh Keating’s high sense of honour has made him confess his son’s part in the theft of the modern books—which, no doubt, were given Captain Keating by some agent of Moss, if not by Moss himself, who led the young man to believe they were my Codex Dromsneachta and my Psalter of Tara.’

The Ollamh’s figure seemed to grow stiffer, his face more grim. ‘Noble Staruidhe,’ he said, slowly, ‘my son, though forgetful of his duty, is not a thief. He was under the apprehension that the books he brought me were my property, the Codex Dromsneachta and the Psalter of Tara, which had been stolen from the National Museum in Baile-Atha-Cliath on the fifth of March, 1821, by your grandfather, the Historian of Connacht.’

‘Noble Ollamh, you stand in my house,’ MacFirbis replied, ‘and I would not willingly say anything that might add to your anger while refuting a charge which the High Order of Ollamhs of the First Rank pronounced false.’

‘I respect your silence,’ answered the Ollamh. ‘And since it is now unnecessary to prolong this interview—sought by me to warn you of the wrong done your hospitality—I will leave Tir-da-glas.’

‘May your road home be smooth,’ said the Historian.

The Ollamh bowed. ‘The blessing of God be with you,’ he replied, and moved towards the door.

Cormac threw it wide. The two old men, with majestic steps, went out, the Historian escorting his foe to the portal of the house.

The silence that their departure left in the room was abruptly broken by the Professor.

‘We have lost the train,’ he said.

The Tanist seemed to come out of a reverie. ‘True,’ he answered. But we have witnessed an interesting piece from the heroic age.’ He looked at his watch. We can get the 1.15, and meanwhile we shall have lunch here.’

‘He took up a newspaper and strolled from the room. The Professor sat down on the nearest chair, and watched him go. There would be a fresh move, he was sure. His broad brow knitted; he looked fiercely contemplative, lion-like, indeed, under his thick mane of flaxen-tinged white hair.

After a moment he seized the morning paper. Moss’s arrest was announced in a prominent place, and there was a leader on it. What would Moss do? he wondered. Would he call in his millions, ruin half the banks in Germany, and shake the credit of the Government? He would be instantly and quietly released, he guessed, if the two vellums were found. And they were here, hidden in some spot known alone to MacBuan. The Professor rose heavily to his feet; time was passing; he must find the gardener.

He met the Historian in the hall, who with a serious and distressed face apologised again for the Ollamh’s mistake. The Professor waived his words aside; he was going on the terrace, he said; and passed on with brooding eyes. No one was there except an under gardener, who told him that MacBuan had gone towards the river.

He crossed the terrace with measured step to the yew walk, quickening his pace as he followed the path. The semi-circle before the river was empty, except for a chattering magpie that hopped away at his approach. So were the ruins. He looked up the stairway of the keep. ‘MacBuan!’ he called. ‘MacBuan!’ But no answer came.

Then a light sprang upon him. What a fool not to think of it before; the books were in the keep! With a vigorous bound, such as he had not accomplished since the duelling days of his student’s life, he mounted the stair. Up he went panting and eager, till the sunshine suddenly smiting him in the face revealed the gap that separated him from the next step. The ivy hung about the crumbling window; and the light showed nooks and crevices in the wall. With a resolute hand, he rifled these spots of cobwebs, dust and dead leaves, but failed to find the books.

He returned to the yew path. As he emerged from between the last of the sombre trees, he saw the Tanist standing on the terrace receiving some telegrams from a pink-faced messenger-boy. He opened one and read it. The Professor saw him raise his head and look in his direction; then evidently telling the boy to wait, he came towards him, holding out two of the green official envelopes.

Once more a strange agitation seized the Professor. Hope, fear, a keen longing to find himself acknowledged as himself again, set a heart which through the years of middle life had kept to a steady beat throbbing violently. Anna, his friends, his normal world, had they—had it—found him? The envelope seemed to refuse to open, tearing off in bits; the paper for a moment appeared glued before it could be unfolded to reveal the message. Alas! Anna had not telegraphed.

‘The Exploration Party,’ he read, ‘wish to know if you intend to proceed to the Euphrates? The Government will undertake the expenses, but wish you to move quickly, as a firman is about to be granted by the Sultan to a Russian expedition. All discoveries to be sent home with despatch.’

The Professor gazed hard at the words. ‘The Embassy,’ he thought, ‘the vellums. Moss, and a panic in the banks.’

His disappointment had the effect of calming him. He opened the other telegram without any fresh hope.

‘Please come at once to Tlachtga.—The Princess of Midhe,’ he read.

The abrupt summons set him reflecting for a few moments. When he glanced again at the Tanist he found he had just finished writing on a piece of paper. As he handed it to the boy, he asked the Professor if he had a message to send.

Schliemann held out the second telegram. ‘The Princess of Midhe wants me to go to Tlachtga,’ he replied.

‘To consult you, no doubt, on some archaic piece of work, some bronze, perhaps. It is rather fortunate,’ the Tanist added, ‘that MacSuibne has wired to ask us to defer our journey to Baile-Atha-Cliath. I expect he has learnt all he wants to know from Moss.’

The Professor made no reply. He was thinking of the books, his own perilous position, and the provoking delay caused by the Princess’s telegram.