His blue eyes were hard and bright; bitter resentment was in his heart. He could not see through the veil of anger that clear flame of sacrifice. For Bethune had gained those lonely heights where human love meets the divine. He had offered Jill his greatest gift--voluntary renunciation. CHAPTER XXVI The sun was shining high in the heavens as McTaggart crossed the station yard to the Railway Inn of the little town that lay in the trough of the crumpled hills. The straggling street, with its poor shops, curving away to the left, was void of life. Not a soul stirred; it might have been a deserted village. He walked briskly into the bar, where a man in shirt sleeves dozed on a stool behind the counter and woke up with a sudden start at the sight of a stranger. "Are you the landlord?" asked McTaggart. "No"--the man stared at him--"he's away, gone to the meeting." "Well--I want a conveyance at once. I see you keep a livery stable." "Can't be done," said the man slowly--"there's no carriages left, whatever." McTaggart frowned. "Where can I get one?" "Nowheres"--the other smiled sourly. He seemed to enjoy the stranger's plight. "Everything's gone over to Cluar--even the carts--you'd best walk. It's only a mile or two, whatever." He relapsed again, his arms on the counter, with an air of dismissing the visitor. McTaggart glanced up at the clock and saw there was no time to lose. He decided to take the barman's advice, but had yet to learn by experience the elastic properties of a mile in Wales by local measurement. "Which is the nearest way?" he asked, drawing a shilling out of his pocket. The man sprang up as if worked by a spring. "I'll show you, sir"--his manner had changed. "Indeed to goodness I'm sorry, sir, we've got no carriage in just now, but you'll cut off a corner across the fields if you'll come through here..." he led McTaggart down a grimy passage that smelt of beer out on to greasy cobblestones where they were faced by a tumble-down building advertising "Excellent Garage." But as they crossed the stable yard McTaggart heard the note of a horn, and turned to see a motor car, covered with dust, pass through the arch and draw up throbbing in their rear. "Morning, David"--the chauffeur called out. He sprang down. "I've come for the petrol." "Whose car?" asked McTaggart quickly. "Mister Llewellyn's," the barman replied, "from Cluarside. That's your way sir"--he opened the gate--"keep straight on, down that path, until you come to the cross roads. Then to the right and up the hill. Thank you, sir." He clutched the coin. "Coming, Charlie..." and was off to the visibly impatient chauffeur. A sudden thought struck McTaggart. As the barman vanished into the house, he turned back into the yard, with a quick glance at the powerful car. "Look here..." he addressed the driver. "Could you give me a lift to the meeting?" He felt in his pocket and drew out a sovereign--"I'd make it well worth your while."