"He laughs loudest who laughs last, my dear Jerome," he muttered as he walked away from the hotel, "and it remains to be seen how your game comes out. Heretofore I have considered the man a mere every day adventurer, attracted by the glitter of Cleo's gold, and believing she knew how to handle such fellows without gloves, did not think it my duty to interfere. Now that it begins to look more serious I find I shall be compelled to throw my castor into the ring, and take up cudgels in her defense. God bless her, a man could not well have a stronger inspiration to do his level best. How the duse I have failed to fall head over heels in love with Cleo all these years I am at a loss to understand, yet somehow I have had an affection for the dear girl such as one entertains for a sister. Now my eyes are opened, and it is I fear quite too late. Destiny has already wrought out my future for good or evil." He was thinking again of San Juan with its park, its glittering lights, its military music and the flash of many dark Spanish eyes. Yes, Roderic was quite right. It was too late! He could never offer Cleo or any other woman the first passion of his heart, since that had gone out under the palms and flower scented bowers of the Antilles to a daughter of Porto Rico. He sighed as he relegated these things, both pleasant and painful, once more to oblivion, and again rallied his forces to grapple with the game on hand. Just around the corner he came across a man advancing toward the hotel, and whom he hailed. "Well met, Darby--I was on the way to hunt you up, while you seem headed for my quarters." "Just so, sir," replied the other, who appeared a man of few words, and evidently one in whom Owen placed much confidence. "You complained recently of rusting--that everything seemed so dull and dead. As fortune has it I am now in a position to offer you a little excitement, and at the same time you may be of great service to me." Darby nodded his head--he was a man of ice, whom nothing could excite, and yet to whom action was as the air he breathed. Knowing the nature of the man so well, Owen struck directly into his story, and ere many minutes had flown the other was as well acquainted with the facts as himself. One feature alone he repressed. This was the attachment on Cleo's part for so unworthy an individual as himself--that was too sacred to be given over as common property. Darby would have to guess a reason for the hatred of Wellington--perhaps he might lay it to the Spanish sympathies of the other, which induced him to seek Dublin in order to have a hand in the mysterious conference with pronounced Fenian leaders; or it might be his sagacity would suggest the only plausible explanation. Thus the story was told. "Quite a neat little affair," commented Darby. "Will you take my place?" asked Owen. The other's face showed no sign of emotion. "Just so, sir."