I knew, as a matter of fact, that Crossan had no coal. I also knew that the _Finola_ was not coaling. The carts were loaded when they were going up the hill. They would have been empty if they had been going to get coal for the _Finola_. I made my remark in the hope of discouraging Godfrey from asking more questions. "I wish you would smuggle something," said Marion. "I should love to have some French lace laid at my door in a bale in the middle of the night." Marion reads novels, and the smugglers in these import French lace. In real life the only people who try to cheat the nation out of its duty on lace are tourist ladies, and they would not share their spoils with Marion. "But why did you coal in the middle of the night?" said Godfrey. One of Godfrey's most striking characteristics is his persistent curiosity. There is hardly anything in the world which Godfrey will not find out if he is given time. A secret has the same attraction for him that cheese has for a mouse. Some day, I hope, he will find a trap baited with a seductive mystery. "We always coal at night," said Power. "Of course," said Marion, "the dirt shows so much less at night than it would in daylight." "But," said Godfrey, "I don't understand why you--" I rose and said that we must go ashore. I invited Power to dinner, and urged him to bring McNeice with him if possible. I made it quite plain that I was not inviting Godfrey. Power accepted the invitation, and sent us off in a boat. I said good-bye firmly to Godfrey at the end of the pier. I was annoyed with him for cross-questioning our host at his own table. Marion and I walked home. Godfrey walked up the hill towards the co-operative store. I am sure he did not want to see Crossan. I cannot suppose that he would venture to catechise McNeice. I expect he meant to prowl round the premises in hopes of discovering casks of smuggled brandy or cases full of tobacco. McNeice came to dinner, and I am bound to say that I found myself very nearly in agreement with Godfrey's opinion of him. He was a singularly ill-mannered man. Power devoted himself to Marion, and I felt at once that their conversation was not of a kind that was likely to be interesting either to McNeice or me. They were talking about ski-ing and skating in Switzerland. McNeice made no effort to talk at all. He sucked his soup into his mouth with a loud hissing noise, and glared at me when I invited him to admire our scenery. His fish he ate more quietly, and I took the opportunity of reminding him of our correspondence about St. Patrick. The subject roused him. "There are," he said, "seventeen different theories about the place of that man's birth."