Business had more to do with his flying visit across the Irish sea than a desire to look upon the scenes of childhood--these tender recollections might be all very good in their way, but when his country was at war with one of the old world powers, young Owen's heart and soul were wrapped up in the interests he represented, and the state mission that had taken him over the Atlantic. The public will never learn more than a small portion of the unwritten history of the Hispano-American war, since these memoirs are snugly reposing in the archives at Washington, where they will rest until dusty with age. Secret agents were employed in many European capitals in the endeavor to discover the true sentiments of the powers most interested, so that in case unhappy Spain seemed in a way to secure an ally, prompt measures might be taken to head off the threatened blow by a sudden _coup d'etat_, in which our good friend Great Britain stood ready to do her part. Roderic Owen, being peculiarly gifted by nature with rare abilities in the line of diplomacy, had been remarkably useful in Berlin, Paris and Vienna, and was now suddenly transferred to another famous capital because it appeared as though Dublin might be the theatre of a little gathering where matters of intense moment were to be discussed. It was evident from his manner that he had made the Nelson column a rendezvous. His eyes followed each tramcar that passed, and never a jaunting-car jogged by that he did not survey with growing interest. A hot blooded Spanish lover awaiting the coming of the black-eyed senorita with whom he had made a tryst could hardly have appeared more anxious. He had just tossed away the remnant of his weed and was feeling for his cigar case to draw out another when the expected happened. "At last!" he muttered, with a sigh of relief. Still he made no abrupt forward movement--caution had been one of the fruits of long diplomatic service. "Everything comes to him who waits--and works," is the leading maxim of their craft. A woman dismounted from a Rathmines car that had just arrived at the terminus of its journey. She was garbed in the sombre black habiliments of a religious recluse belonging to one of the many orders in Dublin. These nuns, serving often in the capacity of Sisters of Charity, come and go with the utmost freedom, respected by the humble classes to whom they are often angelic messengers in times of distress or sickness. Just as he expected the sombre robed passenger came slowly toward him as though endeavoring to make sure of his identity ere accosting him. Owen could _feel_ a pair of eager eyes fastened upon his face, for there is such a sensation, and it surprised him to experience it. Then came a low voice breathing his name, and somehow it had never before sounded just the same to him, nor had he known there was music in its bare utterance. "I have waited about half an hour for you," remarked the American, complacently.