The shock nearly overwhelmed Dora. The double blow was too much for her, and when the landlady came into the room a short time afterwards she found the girl insensible on the floor. When she returned to consciousness she could not believe she had read the paper aright. She took it up again and went carefully over the passage with aching eyes. The solid ground seemed to be melting away under her feet, and all the material things around her were visionary, unreal, far away. The landlady at length made her talk, and with talk came tears, and with tears relief. She pointed out the paragraph to the woman, and told her she must go at once to the hospital and see about the whole affair. It was too horrible, she said, to think that her grandfather should be killed and her lover nearly killed in this enterprise, whatever it was, they were engaged upon. The woman was of a kindly and compassionate nature, and offered to accompany the girl. This offer Dora gladly accepted, and the two set out. They ascertained at the hospital that Lavirotte was going on favourably, but that they could not see him until next day. They went and saw the body of the old man at the mortuary, and, finding out that nothing could be done, returned to Charterhouse Square, greatly depressed and saddened; for the kindly woman shared the girl's grief, and felt for her desolate condition. Next day, when Dora called at the hospital she was admitted. She found Lavirotte haggard, and worn, and wild-looking, but far less seriously injured than the newspaper report had led her to expect. It was not a place for a demonstrative meeting, and she had been cautioned not to excite the injured man. After the first words of the meeting she asked him all the particulars of what had occurred at the tower. He told her as briefly as he could. Then for the first time she learned that her grandfather and her lover had been seeking for a treasure in that lonely place in Porter Street. He told her how the old man had been firmly persuaded a vast hoard had been hidden beneath the tower before the Great Fire, and had remained there ever since. While he, Lavirotte, was away at his lodgings, looking for letters, the old man had found the top of the vault, had pierced the vault, and descended into it. Then, no doubt, the shock of finding the work of years useless had been too great for him, and he had succumbed. He related how he, being then in a very weak condition from wearing anxiety and the want of food and rest, had returned to the tower, descended into the vault, and found himself unable to reascend. Then later on came the crash, his own insensibility, and finally the rescue the afternoon before. In grief and pity she listened to him, and when he had finished she could think of nothing to say but that she hoped he would soon get strong again, and that she would do anything she could for him, and come to see him as often as they would let her. Then he went on to explain how this terrible disappointment at not finding the treasure would not only leave him almost penniless, but would prevent him doing the service he had intended for O'Donnell and Kempston. He told her he had not replied to the letter he found from Eugene at his lodgings, because he hoped that in a day or two he might be able to communicate the glorious news that the period of their affluence was at hand. Now all this was changed. The whole aspect of his career was altered, and the first thing she would have to do for him was to telegraph to Eugene, saying that all hope of succour was now at an end. It would be a cruel, a terrible, perhaps literally a fatal blow to the elder O'Donnell, but that could not now be helped. He dictated to her the telegram, and she wrote it down. He also dictated a note she was to write to Mr. Kempston. Then he said: "They tell me I shall not be long here; but how it is to be with me when I get about again I cannot say. Misfortune seems to have marked me out as one upon whom she was to try all her arts." She said tenderly, advancing her hand to his: "Don't say that, Dominique." "Forgive me, Dora, darling. I was not thinking of you. I was speaking of only the business aspect of things. We shall be as poor as ever now." "But we were never rich, and yet we were-fond of each other, and very happy." "Ay, darling, very fond of each other, and very happy, and will be always," he added, pressing the hand he had in his. "I was thinking only of you in the matter. When I had this dream of wealth upon me, I used to picture to myself what we should do when we became rich; how you should have all that art and luxury could produce." "I have never wished for wealth or luxury, Dominique," she whispered. "I know I shall be as happy as I ever hoped to be, more happy than I ever deserved, with you. Let us think no more of that treasure. It has brought no good to us up to this. Why should we allow it to cause us sorrow now?" "Ay, ay," he said. "We must make the best of it now. Bad will be the best of it, but it might have been worse. You know I have a little money, and with it I shall be able to continue at the singing until I am good enough for the boards. Then I shall be able to earn enough for us both, Dora." "Very little will be enough," she whispered, again pressing his hand. He returned the pressure, and said: "Thank you, darling. They will not let you stay much longer now. I am sorry I am not able to be up; but I suppose they will do everything necessary about your grandfather. I want you to go to my landlord. He has some money of mine. Tell him to arrange all about the funeral. You tell me there is no man in the house where you lodge, and the few men I know in London, I know scarcely sufficiently well to ask a favour of them. Stop," he said; "there is Grafton. I might ask him. He was very friendly to me when I was in London before. I remember where he lived. Go to him and tell him all, and give him the money. That will be better." He gave her Grafton's address, and after a little while she took her leave. She sought the artist and found him at home. He had two rooms in Charlotte Street-one a bedroom; the other served as studio and sitting-room. When Dora called, he was not alone. Having renewed his acquaintance with Cassidy, he had invited the dandy to his place. Cassidy and he were now having coffee. Grafton hurried Cassidy into the bedroom, which was separated from the sitting-room by folding doors. Dora was shown up, and explained the circumstances of the case. Grafton said he would be delighted to do anything he could for Lavirotte and Miss Harrington. Unfortunately there was a difficulty in the way. It was utterly impossible for him to leave his studio that afternoon or night, as he was at work on a block which would take him till five o'clock in the morning to finish, and he had just that moment received a telegram from the illustrated paper on which he worked, ordering him north to the scene of a great colliery accident the first thing in the morning. He was deeply grieved. He would try if he could possibly do anything. Stop! A friend of his was in the house. He would go and ask him if he could manage to do what was required. He went out by the door leading to the landing, and from that landing through another door into the bedroom where Cassidy was. Cassidy flushed with surprise and pleasure when he saw a chance of his getting mixed up with the Lavirotte affair. He told Grafton he would ask them to give him a holiday to-morrow, and between this afternoon and to-morrow there would be plenty of time to arrange everything about Lionel Crawford, as, no doubt, the inquest was held that day. Then Grafton brought Cassidy in and introduced him to Dora, and said that he would act in every way as though he were Grafton himself. Dora expressed her great gratitude. "You know," Cassidy said, "I shall go and see Mr. Lavirotte as soon as possible, and I have no doubt he will be glad to see me, for I come from the neighbourhood in which he lived, and know Glengowra thoroughly." Here the overwhelming desire to rise in importance in the eyes of Dora, pleasantly or otherwise, mastered him, and he said: "Perhaps you have seen the special edition of The Evening Record?" She said yes; that she had there first seen an account of the terrible affair. "It was I," said he, bowing and smiling, "who gave the information respecting the mysterious occurrence at Glengowra, of which you, doubtless, know." By this time he was, of course, aware he was talking to the girl to whom Lavirotte had made love when formerly in London. "I do not know anything about it," she whispered faintly. "I am exceedingly obliged to both of you." She said good-bye and went. When she was gone, Cassidy said: "Strange she doesn't know anything about the Glengowra affair. I don't think it right she should be kept in ignorance of it. However, Grafton, you haven't a minute to lose now. I'll be off down east and see what's to be done. I assure you nothing could give me greater pleasure than to act for you in this affair."

CHAPTER VIII

When Eugene O'Donnell got the telegram he fell into despair. He durst not go to his father or his mother. Up to this his father had been in the very best spirits, fully anticipating deliverance at the hands of Lavirotte. Now what was to become of them? Ruin of the most complete kind stared them in the face. They would not have the least chance of saving anything from the wreck of their fortune, for James O'Donnell was a man of scrupulous honesty, and would not lend himself to the least kind of fraud. When everything was sold up they would not be able to pay more than a small portion of the last call, and Eugene knew his father too well to think he would conceal a single penny, or accept a favour at the hands of the bank. Eugene did not know what to do. The telegram came to him when he was alone. He read it three times, put it in his pocket, and went out to try if a walk in the air would help him. Insensibly his steps turned towards the station, where, a little later on in the afternoon, he would, in the ordinary course, find himself on the way to Glengowra. When he got to the railway station he looked at his watch, and saw that there was just time for him to run out to Glengowra and get back again before his ordinary time for leaving the office. He determined to run out and tell it first of all to Nellie, upon whom he had learned to depend. She was greatly surprised to see him so early, ran to him with a smile, and, throwing her arms round him, said: "I cannot tell you why, but I was half expecting to see you earlier than usual. You have brought good news, I dare say, from Lavirotte?" He shook his head, and said: "No; poor Lavirotte has met with an accident." "Met with an accident!" cried Nellie, in surprise. "Is it serious, and will he be able to do what he promised for your father?" "Well, you see," said her husband, "this accident is likely to knock him up for some time, I suppose, and every hour is precious to us." The husband and wife were now in the little drawing-room overlooking the sea. He had sat down on a chair, dispiritedly. She stood opposite him, with eager, inquiring eyes. "So that you are afraid," said she, "that, after all, his promise may come to nothing." "Yes," said Eugene, "I am afraid it may come to nothing." She sank on a chair beside him, and cried: "Good heavens, Eugene, what is to become of us all?" "I don't know, Nellie," he said gloomily, "I have not dared to tell the governor yet. I must tell him to-night, you know. He must at once decide upon what we shall do." "Do you believe Lavirotte met with an accident?" "Certainly I believe. What object could he have in telling a lie?" "To screen his failure, if not worse." "What could be worse at present than his failure?" "Supposing he had deliberately deceived all through." "What earthly object could Lavirotte have in deceiving us?" "Well, he would tell neither you nor your father where he expected this money from. I don't like Lavirotte. I don't trust him. I wish we never had anything to do with him. I think it was an unfortunate day you first met him." "Look here, now, Nellie. I believe Lavirotte was perfectly sincere in this matter, as I believe he was sincere in his love of you, or in his desire to destroy me when under the influence of what must have been insanity. Anyway, this is not the time to discuss his merits. We must think of what we ourselves have to do in this matter. How am I to break it to my father? After all he has gone through, I fear it will kill him or drive him mad. He has the fullest faith in Lavirotte's turning up with the money in time. As I told you before, he has made arrangements for the future in the full faith that the help will be forthcoming." "I don't know how you are to do it, Eugene. As you say, there is very little time, if he must know this evening. Would you like me to go in and see your mother, or do you think I should only be in the way?" "I don't know, I'm sure. But I think, after all, it will be best if I open the subject to him." So it was decided that Eugene should go back to Rathclare, and make known to his father the bad news contained in the telegram. His visit to Glengowra had no effect. It left a strong impression on Nellie's mind, that in addition to Lavirotte being, under great excitement, a dangerous lunatic, he was capable at ordinary times of deliberately and cruelly lying, if the statements he made were not the result of delusion. When Eugene found his father, the latter was in the best of spirits. "Well, my son," he cried cheerily, "any news from London? Has our friend, our good friend, got the money? Time is running very short now, and since we are going to pay the call, we may as well do the thing decently and be up to time." "Do you think, sir, there is no chance of getting a later date for payment?" The father shook his head. "No, there is no chance," he said. "Those who can pay must pay up at once. I am not myself uneasy about Lavirotte, but I wish we had some news. It will be comfortable to hear the mill going when this awful banking affair is pleasantly settled; but I own the sound of the mill does not seem good for my ears just now. This, of course, will be all right in a few days. Why do you ask if there is any chance of getting time, boy?" "Because, sir, it has occurred to me that possibly we may want it." "But Lavirotte knows the circumstances of the case; and with such vast expectations as he has, there can be no difficulty whatever in getting in the form of an advance any sum of money we may require." "That depends on the security he has to offer. Do you know, sir, what is the nature of the security he has to offer?" "No, he would not tell me. He said he was under an obligation, and could communicate the matter to no one." "Well, sir, may it not be that the property which he expects to come into will not realise quite as much as he anticipated? Suppose it fell a little short of what you want, what should you do?" "Borrow money on this place, of course," said the merchant, waving his hand over his head. "But in case, I mean, that what Lavirotte could give you and what you could borrow on this place would not together make sufficient, what would you do?" "Upon my word, Eugene, you are in a very uncomfortable humour to-day. What earthly use is there in calculating upon chances or solving difficulties that will never arise? But I may answer you. I should of course sell the place. I should sell every stick of the place, every wheel, every ounce of stuff in it, my house, horses, plate, furniture, in fact everything that I have." By this time the face of the old man had lost its gay aspect. He had turned pale. His eyes were no longer sprightly, but fixed with a strange glitter, not turned directly towards his son-in fact, avoiding his son's gaze. It was as though he suspected-he more than suspected, he assumed-Eugene had some bad news to give him, and that he would wait there patiently for the bad news to come without aiding his son's story by the display of curiosity. "But, sir, I have some reason to fear Lavirotte will not be able to do all he said. I am disposed to think, on good grounds, that he will not have all the money we want in time." The son now avoided the father's face. They were sitting at opposite sides of the large office table. The son's eyes were turned towards the window looking into the quadrangle. The father's eyes were fixed vacantly upon the door of the strong-room behind his son, and to his right. "In that case," said the elder man, "I should mortgage." "I am very much disinclined to go on," said the young man, frowning heavily, "but I have no alternative. Lavirotte will not be able to give you all you want, and I do not think you will be able to pay all." "Then I shall sell. I shall sell every stick I have in the world." The old man's eyes became more fixed than ever; they never wandered from that door. His face became more pallid. With both hands he grasped the elbows of his chair. He sat well in the chair, leaning slightly forward, as though he expected someone who would try and pull him out of it. His son looked hastily at him for a moment, then turned his eyes away as hastily, and said slowly: "You must know, sir-you must by this time have guessed that I have had bad news from London, from Lavirotte. You must try and bear up, sir, for all our sakes. It will be a bitter blow after the hope we have lived in for months." James O'Donnell seemed to abandon the position he had taken up with regard to Eugene's news. It would be folly any longer to affect ignorance that something terrible was coming, or to court delay. "What is the news from Lavirotte?" he asked. "Lavirotte is himself injured by some accident, and he has no longer any hope of realising the money he expected." "No longer any hope," repeated the old man. "No longer any hope, sir. We are not to rely on him for the least aid. What do you purpose doing, sir?" "I must think over the matter for a while, Eugene." He looked calmly at his watch. "You have only just time to catch the train, and I would rather be alone at present." "If you would let me stay, sir, I would much rather remain with you. I can drive home later." "No, Eugene; you may go now. I would rather be alone." The old man seemed quite calm and collected; in fact, so calm and collected, that Eugene resolved not to go to Glengowra by the train, but to run up to his father's house and to tell his mother what had occurred. When James O'Donnell found himself alone, he got up slowly out of his chair, crossed the floor, opened the door of the strong-room, whispering to himself: "No longer any hope." He went into the gloomy chamber, and going to the safe, opened it and took something from it. When he returned to the office, he held the revolver in his hand and whispered to himself: "No longer any hope." He looked at his watch. It was just closing time. Having placed the revolver on the table, he sat down in his chair, whispering in the same quiet voice, "I will wait till they are all gone," and repeated for the third time: "No longer any hope." At seven o'clock Eugene returned to the private office, for which he had a key. To his astonishment he found his father's chair vacant and the strong-room door open. He went into the strong-room and examined it. The door of the safe was open. The drawer was pulled out. Eugene turned sick. He leant against the wall and moaned out: "Oh! what has the poor old man done!" Then he pushed in the drawer, the door of the safe, the door of the strong-room, and having locked the door of the private office, hastened downstairs. He could find no trace of his father. He set half-a-dozen men to search the town quietly. Up to next morning he failed to find any clue to James O'Donnell.