This simple phenomenon produced its effect on both Teresa and Richard. The old man had come back, and one mystery, therefore, would at length be solved--provided that the old man chose to open his mouth! The idea of thus approaching a revelation somehow impressed Raphael Craig’s daughter and her companion with a sense of awe, a sense almost of fear. They were secretly afraid lest they might encounter something which it would have been better not to encounter. Each in fancy pictured Raphael Craig alone in the house engaged in a strange business. Each silently asked the question, ‘Where is Micky?’ and answered it with a vague and terrible surmise. The feeling that Raphael Craig was responsible for the disappearance of Micky grew on Richard especially. At first he had scouted it, but he gradually persuaded himself that a man like Raphael Craig was capable of most things, even to disposing of a detective. If Raphael Craig had indeed any criminal secret to hide, and he found out that Micky, a Scotland Yard detective, was prying into the secret, Richard guessed that the fate of Micky might hazardously tremble in the balance. And another aspect of the affair troubled Richard. ‘If your father has returned,’ he said to Teresa, ‘how shall I explain my presence, or, rather, how will you explain it? It seems to me that I scarcely know myself why I am here with you on this car. I came on the assumption that your father was gone. His presence would make me a rather unnecessary item, wouldn’t it?’ ‘Who can tell?’ Teresa murmured absently; and Richard was rather chagrined at this peculiar reply. The car was now down in the lowest part of the valley, and the house for the moment out of sight. When, as the car breasted the hill, the summit of the slope reappeared to the view, there was no light in Queen’s Farm; the twinkling illumination was extinguished. Only the plain outline of the house stood faintly visible under the waning moon. ‘Perhaps father has gone to bed,’ said Teresa, with a desperate affectation of lightness. ‘I wonder what he would think when he found the house empty.’ Bridget emitted a weird sound which was between a moan and a groan. ‘Happen ’twas a fairy light we saw,’ she said, the deep instincts of Celtic superstition always rising thus at the slightest invitation. The car at length turned into the boreen, and so reached the house. The gate was opened, and Richard dexterously twisted the car into the drive. The house--gaunt, bare, sinister--showed no sign whatever of life. The three occupants of the car descended, and stood for a second within the porch. ‘The latch-key, Bridget,’ said Teresa curtly. Bridget produced the latch-key, but on putting it into the keyhole Teresa discovered that the door was already unfastened. A push, and it swung backwards, revealing the gloom of the hall. ‘Shall I go first?’ said Richard. ‘If you please,’ Teresa replied eagerly, and Richard stepped within. The women followed.