She then explained to him what had occurred--how she had not noticed the time slipping by, and how, when she found herself in Ludgate Circus, she was twenty minutes too late. "Well, there's no harm done so far," said Crawford. "You sent your telegram, and now we shall go and look for a lodging." "No," she said, "I did not send it. I wrote it out and then tore it up. Did you know, sir, that all the money in this bag is gold?" "Yes," he said, "I keep my change loose always. Did you expect to find notes?" "Oh no, sir; but I thought as you were good enough to give this money you might perhaps allow me to do with it what I would most like. That is the reason I tore up my telegram." "Certainly," he said. "You may do with it exactly what you please." "Well then," said the girl, "will you consent to my going to Ireland this evening?" The old man started for a moment. "I suppose you mean," he said, "to Glengowra, to see Lavirotte." She coloured, and said: "Yes. If you do not object. He is ill, you know." "It is a long way for a young girl to go alone; too long I fear." "I am used to travelling," pleaded the girl, "I do not mind travelling in the least. I have travelled a great deal alone." "Give me a little time to think," said the old man. "I cannot decide at the moment. This is no place to stand any longer. Let us sit down somewhere. Come with me." Crawford led the way to a quiet room, where he ordered some light refreshment, and where they could speak without effort or restraint. They talked the matter over a little. At last he made up his mind. "I have resolved," he said, "that you should not go alone so long a journey." The girl looked disappointed; her eyes filled with tears. "Oh!" she cried, "I wish you would give me leave." "Nevertheless," said the old man, not heeding the interruption, "you shall go to Ireland this evening. I will go with you." They were alone. She took his dark, wrinkled hand in hers and kissed it, and cried, "Thank you, grandfather," and burst into tears. It was the first time the old man had been called grandfather, and the name seemed to re-awaken in his breast echoes of his old tenderness. He placed his other hand on her head, and drew her head down on his shoulder, saying softly: "Weep, if it is good for your heart, my child. These are healing tears. You are, as far as I know, the one human being saved to me out of the shipwreck of my life. I will go with you to-night. He will recover speedily, you may be sure, and I will afterwards do all I can for you and him." Then the detail of their journey was arranged. She was to get what things she required in lieu of those left with her landlady. He had some preparations to make too. That evening they both set out for Dublin on their way to Glengowra. CHAPTER XXI.