"'Not yet,' he said--'do not leave me yet. I want to say a few more words to you. It is easy to listen. Listen, pray. I would not, as I said before, give that rose for all his money. If I chose to speak, things might be different with him. By fair means or by foul, I will not say which, I could make his wealth melt like snow in the sun. But I have no caring, no need for wealth. I shall not hurt him if you will make me two promises. Will you make the two promises I ask?' "By this time I felt fully persuaded I was in the presence of a madman. I looked around and could see no one but the man before me. We were not a hundred yards from the edge of the cliff. I no longer thought him physically weak; his encounter with the thieves had settled that point. If he were mad, the promise would count for nothing. There could be no doubt he was insane. I resolved to try him: 'How is it possible for me to make two promises to you until I know what they are?' "'Your husband trusts me--you may trust me. Do you promise?' "'First let me know what the promises are.' "'That you will say nothing of what I have said to you to Mr. Davenport, and that, if ever I have it in my power to do you another service, and do it, you will give me another rose.' "'Yes; in both cases,' I answered. 'You may rest satisfied.' "I got away then and was very glad to escape. There was no occasion to speak to any one about this meeting with Fahey on the downs, unless indeed I firmly believed he was mad; and now that I had time to recall all he had said, and review all his actions, I began seriously to question my assumption as to his insanity. I took the first opportunity of asking my husband if there was anything remarkable about Fahey. Mr. Davenport seemed a good deal put out by the question, and asked me what I meant. I said I thought Fahey was odd at times. My husband said Fahey was all right, and did not seem disposed to go on any further with the conversation. "I did not meet Fahey again for a long time--I mean months. He then seemed quite collected; but before wishing good-bye, he said significantly: 'A man may disappear at any moment on a coast like this, and yet may not be dead. Now, suppose I were to disappear suddenly on this coast, you would think I had died, and that Mr. Davenport no longer ran any risk from my being talkative, or you any chance of being called upon for that other rose. I am not enamoured of this coast. I consider it dreary and inhospitable, and it would not at all surprise me if one day I packed up and fled far away, and stopped away until almost all memory of me was lost. Do you think, Mrs. Davenport, that if, after such an absence, I were to come back, you would recognise me?'