There was considerable comment after this. The atmosphere was charged with earnestness. The belief grew that the clear-headed little humorist, Finacune, had pricked the pith of the question. The situation furnished certain gorgeous playthings for discussion. The idea that the Czar’s secret service, either through the purchase of a traitor or some miraculous thievery, had secured information explosive enough to blow out the British underpinnings from India, amounted to a huge and awful conception in the English mind. Even the pale, listless Talliaferro, the stately _Commonwealth’s_ “Excalibur,” stirred restlessly. There was sharp scattering of gravel along the driveway, and the four turned to see Jerry Cardinegh riding out on a gray gelding of splendid style and power. He sped by at a fast rack, bending forward in the saddle, his white, haggard face in vivid profile against the vine-hung wall to his right. His gloved left hand held the bridle-rein with the rigidity of an artificial member. His shoulders did not seem to fill the coat he wore; his body looked little and shrunken on the huge beast; his lips moved.... In the mind of each one of the four, queerly enough, was lastingly imprinted this flying glimpse of the well-loved dean as he swung out of the drive on to the Jasper Road. “Speaking of wanting to know a thing,” observed Trollope, “I should like to know what is pulling down the old man.” “We’ve all got to break,” said Feeney gloomily. “Jerry’s breaking the approved way like a good machine whose parts are of equal tensile strength.” “I wonder if it is possible,” came from Finacune slowly, “for the dean to have a line on the mystery, and that it is so desperate--you know there are some situations so desperate--that if one looks them straight in the face he is never the same afterward.” “Any international disturbance that could throw old Jerry Cardinegh off his feet, or off his feed, would have to concern Ireland,” observed Feeney. Trollope took up the subject. “It was after that night that Routledge dropped in upon us in Bhurpal--that Jerry began really to tear down. They had a talk together after we turned in.” “Who should know the real thing--if not that demon Routledge, who rides alone?” Feeney questioned. “Gentlemen,” said Trollope, clapping his hands for a servant, “we sail to-night for Home. By the grace of the weird god of wars, we’ll be in London, at the Army and Navy Reception, within a month. Possibly then we shall be trusted with the secret which our papers dare not trust to the cable--the secret that is gnawing at the vitals of who shall say how many Powers? In the meantime, let us all drink to the man who wrote of England’s wars--save the deathless Feeney here--when we were just learning to read fairy-tales--drink to the man who just rode by!” “May I add a line, Trollope?” Finacune asked, as the pegs were brought. The “Blue Boar” nodded.