“Well, I use it as a bedroom very often,” said the other. “I like knocking about in it; and I hate hotels; so Con and I live in the car when we go touring, and he cooks for me, camp-fashion. This seat makes a very good bed; and I have various travelling fixtures that screw on here and there when they are needed, or live under the seat. I planned it myself, and I don’t think there’s a foot of waste space in it. Con sleeps in the front seat. We have an electric cooker, and he turns out uncommonly good meals. Of course, if we encounter really bad weather we have to put in for shelter, but I’m glad to say that doesn’t often happen to us.” “How jolly!” Wally exclaimed. “I suppose you’ve been all over Ireland in that way?” “Ireland—Scotland—England: and most of Europe and America,” said his host. “I’m an idle man, you see, and travelling, if I can do it in my own fashion, makes amends for a good many things I can’t have.” The weariness came back into his face. “I might as well introduce myself,” he said; “I forgot that I had kidnapped you without the civility of telling you my name, which is O’Neill—John O’Neill. I live at Rathcullen House, where we shall be in another minute or two.” Memory came back to Wally of a road perched above the lough, and of a little runabout car driven by a man in motor-goggles: and of the boatman’s confidences. “Then you’re Sir John O’Neill?” he asked. “Yes—the first part of it doesn’t matter. The line goes back a good way, but I’m the last of it. But the old house is rather jolly; I hope you will all come and see it as often as you can spare the time.” The car swung off the road as he spoke, and through a great gateway where beautiful gates of wrought iron stood open between massive stone pillars. A little gabled lodge, with windows of diamond lattice-work, was just within: a pleasant-faced woman in pursuit of a fleeing mischievous child stopped, smiled, and dropped a curtsey, while the three-year-old atom she had been chasing bobbed down in ridiculous imitation, her elfish face breaking into smiles in its tangle of dark curls. John O’Neill smiled in return; and the car sped on smoothly, up a wide avenue lined with enormous beech-trees, arching and meeting overhead so that they seemed to be driving into a tunnel of perfect green. Between their mighty trunks Wally caught glimpses of a wide park, where little black Kerry cattle grazed.