As Hyacinth turned to go, there flashed across his mind the recollection of Miss Goold and her friends who wrote for the _Croppy_. ‘There’s one paper in Ireland, anyhow,’ he said, ‘which is not afraid of your wife nor your Archbishop. I’ll write to the _Croppy_, and you’ll see if they won’t publish the facts.’ Mr. Dowling grinned. ‘I don’t care if they do,’ he said. ‘The priests are dead against the _Croppy_, and there’s hardly a man in the town reads it. Go up there now to Hely’s and try if you can buy a copy. I tell you it isn’t on sale here at all, and whatever they publish will do me no harm.’ When Hyacinth returned to the hotel he found Mr. Holywell seated, with the inevitable whisky-and-water beside him, in the commercial-room. ‘Well, Mr. Conneally,’ he said, ‘and how is patriotism paying you? Find people ready to buy what’s Irish?’ Hyacinth, boiling over with indignation, related his experience with Mr. Dowling. ‘What did I tell you?’ said Mr. Hollywell. ‘But anyhow you’re just as well out of a deal with that fellow. I wouldn’t care to do business with him myself. I happen to know, and you may take my word for it’--his voice sunk to a confidential whisper--‘that he’s very deep in the books of two English firms, and that he daren’t--simply daren’t--place an order with anyone else. They’d have him in the Bankruptcy Court to-morrow if he did. I shouldn’t feel easy with Mr. Dowling’s cheque for an account until I saw how the clerk took it across the bank counter. You mark my words, there’ll be a fire in that establishment before the year’s out.’ The prophecy was fulfilled, as Hyacinth learnt from the _Mayo Telegraphy_ and Mr. Dowling’s whole stock of goods was consumed. There were rumours that a sceptical insurance company made difficulties about paying the compensation demanded; but the inhabitants of Ardnaree marked their confidence in the husband of an Archbishop’s niece by presenting him with an address of sympathy and a purse containing ten sovereigns.