He glanced uncertainly round the landing, as if seeking a chair to offer her. Then an idea struck him. "Will you come downstairs?" he suggested. "The fire is still alight in the dining-room. You--you must be cold as well as tired." He looked hesitatingly at her light gown. But Clodagh shook her head. "We mustn't go down," she said. "He might come in and find us--and then we'd have a row. He and I of course, I mean," she added politely. Then, as if impatient of the preamble, she plunged into the subject she had at heart. "Mr. Milbanke," she said, "will you promise me not to--not to, after to-night----?" Milbanke's face looked blank. "Not to what?" he asked. "Oh, not to encourage him--not to play with him. He's ruining himself and ruining us all. Couldn't you guess it from dinner--from the quarrel we had? Oh, he's so terribly foolish!" Her voice suddenly trembled. But he was labouring under the shock her revelation had given him. "Good heavens!" he stammered. "I had no idea--no idea of such a thing." "No; I know you hadn't--I was sure you hadn't." Her voice thrilled with quick relief. "No, no. Certainly not. But tell me about it. Dear me!--dear me! I had no idea of such a thing." "Oh, it began ages ago--before mother died. Burke says 'twas the life--the quiet life after England. He came home, you know, when his father died, and he found the place in a bad way. He has never been rich enough to live out of the country, and he has never stopped fretting for the things that aren't here. But while mother lived he kept pretty good; 'twas after she died that he seemed not to care. First he got gloomy and sad, then he got reckless and terrible. People were frightened of him. His friends began to drop away." She paused for a moment, glancing down into the hall to assure herself that all was quiet. "It's been the same ever since. Sometimes he's gloomy and depressed, other times he's wild, like to-night. And when he's wild, he's mad for cards. Oh, you don't know what it's like! It's like being a drunkard--only different--and worse. When he's like that, he'd play with any one--for anything. Last week he had a dreadful man--a horse-dealer from Muskeere--staying here with him for three days. They played cards every night--played till three or four in the morning. Father lost all the ready money in the house, and nearly emptied the stables." Milbanke stood before her horrified and absorbed. An understanding of many things, before obscure, had come to him while she was speaking; and with the knowledge, a sudden deep pity for this child of his old friend--a sudden sense of guilt at his own blindness, his own weakness. "Miss Clodagh," he said quickly, in his stiff, formal voice. Then he paused, as she raised her hand with a sharp gesture of attention. A heavy step sounded on the gravel outside the house. There was an instant's hesitation; then Clodagh leant forward with swift presence of mind and blew out the three remaining candles.