It was Phelan who said it was not the hand of mortal man that had kindled the fire the four men in the Red Cave saw after the dying of the red light on the water.

For a long time after he had spoken no human voice was heard. All was silence save the mystic whispers and breathings of the cave, which, after the prodigious clangour lately filling the void, were no more than the ripple of faint air flowing through mere night.

The three men watched the light breathlessly. At first it seemed steady, but now it began to waver slowly this way and that way, like a warning hand admonishing or threatening, a spiritual hand beckoning or blessing.

It was not crimson, as the other flame had been, but pale yellow, like the early east. It was not fierce and dazzling, but lambent and soft. It was not light in darkness, as a zenith moon, but light against darkness, as a setting star. It was independent, absolute, taking or giving nothing. Space lay between it and the eyes that saw; infinity between it and the sightless vault.

There was something in this cave that killed you, and yet in that place you must not die.

"Heaven be merciful to us!" whispered a human voice.

"To us," whispered the phantom voice against the men's hair.

"It's the corpse-candle of the dead men of the Black Rock," whispered Phelan.

"Of the Black Rock!" echoed the spirit.

The words "Black Rock" acted like a charm, and broke the terrible spell of the place. Never before had the name of that fatal and hated shelf of land sounded grateful to human ears.

The two boatmen had been often in that stupendous cave before, had seen its colossal glories in the ruby flare, and heard its reverberating thunders in the inexorable gloom. But never until now had they gazed upon this weird light; they were certain that if it had existed when they had been visitors on other occasions they could not have missed observing it.

What they now saw made a profound impression on them, and powerfully excited their superstitious minds. They had never rowed to the end of that eastern shaft of the labyrinth, but they knew from the sharp turn it struck west, and the great depth to which it penetrated, that the onward limit of it must be near the rear of the Black Rock.

This filled them with doubt-uneasy doubt. Owing to the darkness and the nature of the remote light, they could not form an exact notion of its position, but they guessed it to be no less than a mile from the Red Gap, and, allowing for everything, that would be the back of the Black Rock.

Why should there be a light at the back of the Black Rock? How could a light be accounted for there? except it was a corpse-candle on that murderous reef.

It was a thought to shudder at.

With the other two men the effect was wholly different. Neither had ever been in this marvellous place before; neither had seen its sights, or heard its sounds, or endured its darkness until now, and their imaginations had been powerfully excited and exercised. At one time they were exalted by the visible-at another overawed by the unseen. Sobriety of thought and familiarity of experience were absent, and they were face to face with things undreamed of and enormous, and with phantoms and monstrous ideas that baffled investigation and pursuit.

But to them the mention of the Black Rock meant the re-entry of ordinary ideas and homely thoughts. It lay out there in the noonday sunlight beside the sunlit sea. It was part of the pastoral land where people sang and trees waved their leaves and winds bore perfumes. There was nothing more disquieting about it than about a ship, or a house, or a rampart.

O'Brien's thoughts had now gone back to their ordinary course. If this light came from anywhere near the Black Rock, might it not have something to do with the Puffing Hole?

The question was fascinating, alluring. It might prove a beacon to discovery.

"Where do you think it is from, Phelan?" he asked, in a whisper.

"Somewhere near the Black Rock. I can't say exactly where."

"What do you believe it is?"

"A corpse-candle. The corpse-candle of the men that the Rock killed."

"Nonsense! You ought to know better. A corpse-candle is not for the dead-it's for the living."

"Above ground it may be so. But under ground it may be different."

"Let us go and see what it is."

"Not a stroke."

"What, Phelan! – afraid again? There's hardly a thing you are not afraid of."

"I'm not afraid of you or any other man."

"If you don't go to it with me, I'll swim to it."

"If you do, it will be your corpse-candle."

"I don't care. If you won't go, I'll swim to it. If you don't make up your mind while I'm counting twenty, I'll dive off and swim."

"It would be murder to let you, O'Brien. Put it out of your head. We won't let you go."

None of the men could see where another was standing.

O'Brien laughed.

"You can't touch me-you can't stop me."

"Whisht-whisht! For heaven's sake, don't laugh. This is no place for laughing with that candle before you."

O'Brien laughed softly, and counted, "One."

"If you laugh again, by heavens, I'll throw you in, O'Brien."

"Two!" O'Brien laughed. "Then you won't let me count twenty? You launch me on my swim at 'three'?"

"He'll bring the cliffs down on us."

"Four! Ha, ha, ha!"

Up to this the words and the laughter had been in whispers. This time O'Brien counted and laughed out loud.

The effect was prodigious. Those vast chambers of solemn night had never before heard human laughter, and they roared and bellowed, and yelled and shrieked, and grumbled, as though furiously calling upon one another to rush together and tear asunder or crush flat the impious intruders who dared to profane with such sounds the sanctuary of their repose.

"I'll go," whispered Phelan-"I'll go. But-wait!"

A torch was now lit, and by the aid of its fitful flame the four men scrambled into the yawl. The two rowers took their places standing and facing the bow. O'Brien held the flaring torch on high, and the boatmen gave way.

As they glided gently along, the irregular walls of the aisle came nearer to them out of the darkness with a nearness that was sinister and hateful. It was as though they crept close with the full intention of crushing the craft and grinding the men to death between their ponderous fangs and molars. They seemed avengers of the echoes outraged by the laughter.

The luminous shaft still shone; but as they came nearer, the light grew whiter and less like flame. The red glare of the torch seemed to overcome it.

The men watched it with starting eyes.

The walls of the cave came closer out of the darkness, and the roof lowered.

By this time Phelan had lost all his fears, and was as curious as the others to know what the light was.

All at once he cried out-"Ease!"

Both men stopped rowing. The sound of the oars ceased, and the noise of the ripple from the oars. All listened intently. A hissing sound could be distinctly heard-a loud hissing sound which they had not noticed before, because, no doubt, of the gradualness of their approach and the noises made by the rowers.

"It's water-falling water. But, in the name of all the saints, where is it falling from, and how can we see it in the darkness? Give way, Tim."

The cave grew narrower still, and now there was barely room for the shortened oars. The sides of it came closer, the roof lowered until it was no more than an arm's length above the heads of the standing men. The bright patch grew higher and broader. The torch still burned. A dull whiteness shone on the rocks.

The luminous space now looked like a faintly-lighted sheet of glass. The hissing sound of the water had gathered intensity.

"I don't know what's beyond, but I'll risk going through if you are willing," cried Phelan, who was now in a state of almost frenzy from suppressed excitement.

"Go on-go on!" shouted O'Brien, who found it difficult to keep from jumping overboard.

"Go on!" repeated Alfred, who, too, was now standing up.

"Give way with a will!" shouted Phelan; and in a minute the boat shot through a thick sheet of foam and falling water, and glided into a placid pool.

For a moment the men were blinded by the foam and water, and could see nothing.

They rubbed their eyes, looked up obliquely, and were blinded once again.

The mid-day sun flamed above their heads at the end of a stupendous tube.

An indescribable cry arose. Then all was still.

A crow flew between them and the sun. All bent their heads and crouched low as though instant death was rushing down upon them. The crow went by harmlessly.

"Do you know where we are?" asked Phelan, in the voice of an awestruck child.

"No."

"At the bottom of the shaft of the old mine. It slants to the southward, and that's the sun!"

They looked around: some wreckage floated on one side of the boat.

"The planks that covered the mouth of the shaft. They must have fallen in."

Something that was not a plank floated on the other side of the boat.

It was the body of Fahey!

CHAPTER XLVI
AN EVENING WALK

"Yes, Madge, 'twas an awful time. I never felt anything like it in my life; and as for Alfred, he was stunned with terror. You see, that old mine shaft had followed the soft part of the cliff (there's not much use in looking for copper in solid sandstone), and so was like a huge telescope, pointed south at some angle or other-the angle, I think, at which you are now holding your chin."

"Jerry, don't talk nonsense."

"You'd be very sorry indeed if I didn't. Well, we hauled the dreadful thing we had found into the boat, and then began to think of getting back; but Phelan, the boatman, swore he would not go through that awful Red Cave with it on board.

"We looked round us to see the best thing we could do. We found we were in what I may call an under-ground pool, from which there were three ways out-one leading into the cliff, one leading in the direction of the sea, and the one by which we had entered. Am I tiring you with my long-winded description?"

"No, Jerry-go on; I came out to hear all," said Madge, pressing the arm on which her own rested.

"We first tried the way towards the sea, and found, to Phelan's amazement and consternation, that it led right under, or, rather, through the Puffing Hole. No power on earth could induce Phelan to go that way. When we made this discovery, I now plainly saw the meaning of those mysterious measurements and instructions left by the unfortunate Fahey, and the means by which he had effected his extraordinary disappearance years ago. He had jumped down and swum inward to where we had found his dead body. In his 'Memorandum,' 'Rise 15.6 lowest' meant what I had expected-the rise of the lowest tide. 'At lowest minute of lowest forward with all might undaunted,' meant that one entering at the Whale's Mouth at the lowest minute of the lowest tide was to push forward with all vigour… But, Madge darling, this must bore you to death?"

"No, Jerry, I love to hear it. Just fancy having the hero of such an adventure telling it quietly to me on the Dulwich Road!"

"Twenty years hence how sick you'll be of these same adventures! You will then have heard them told at least a thousand times to every fresh acquaintance I make-man, woman, or child. But you'll be very tired of me also, sweetheart, and you shall go to sleep in an easy-chair while I prate on."

"Don't say such horrid things, or I shall cry. Please go on."

"Ah, well, you may bully me now, but you won't then. Where did I leave off, darling?" He pressed her arm and she pressed his.

"At the man going up under the Puffing Hole. The paper he left with your solicitor."

"Our solicitor-say our solicitor."

"Our solicitor. There! But how tiresome you are!"

"Oh, ay! I have the whole thing off by heart. The 'Memorandum' goes on, 'The foregoing refers to s-c-u-l-l-s with only one s-k-u-l-l any lowest, or any last quarter, but great forward pluck required for this. In both cases (of course!) left.' You see, here he underlines the words 'sculls' and 'skull,' which shows something unusual was meant. Remembering everything, 'sculls' evidently meant sculls, as very few people have more than one skull, and 'skull' meant what it seems to mean-your head. By-the-way, I beg your pardon. It's only men have skulls, not angels.'

"Jerry, I'm going home."

"Well, I won't, I won't! Put your arm back. Let us, in fact, have an armed peace."

"This kind of thing, Jerry, is very bitter, and I feel as if-as if-as if-"

"As if what?"

"As if I can't help liking you-sometimes when you're nice."

"I'll be good and nice. Well, what he meant was that when you wanted to get at his hiding-place by the sea, in a boat pulling sculls, you came and did certain things; and that when you wanted to get there by jumping down the Puffing Hole, you did other things.

"When we came back to the foot of the shaft the sun had gone off it, and it was comparatively dark. We tried the passage leading inward, and here we found Fahey's hiding-place. It was a small low cave, with a rocky ledge about as wide as the footway we are walking on… Madge, are those new boots? They look new. I wonder did I ever tell you I think you have awfully pretty feet."

"I give you up. You are incorrigible."

"As I was saying, we found a ledge of rock about as broad as your foot. This was Fahey's retreat, and here were all the materials used by the forgers of bank-notes. How Fahey got them there unobserved is the puzzle. He must have brought them piecemeal Here, beyond all doubt, were printed the notes forged upon the bank of Bordelon and Company, of Paris, by means of which Mr. Davenport stole a colossal fortune.

"Here we found an explanation of how Fahey's suit of clothes lasted ten or twelve years. We found two suits precisely similar. He kept one to wear, no doubt, while the other was drying. There was a place which had evidently been used as a fireplace, and although there was water so close to this ledge, it was above the highest reach of the highest tide, and dry as tinder. The dryness of the place and the salt of the sea-water had preserved these clothes from decay, while most of the metal things had crumbled into dust.

"He must have discovered this place in his boat, and after that found out the shaft of the mine communicated with the whole cavernous system, which is so vast as to stagger the mind. Thus he had two means of gaining his retreat; and when he said he had lost his boat, she was safely moored in the cave in case of emergency-for we found the painter-chain hanging from a bolt."

"But what of that light you saw that turned out to be water? And did the miners work in the sea?"

"Attentive and intelligent darling, I thank thee. The theory is that Fahey, in falling or sliding down the shaft, struck the western wall of the pool in which we found him, and brought down a huge mass of clay which was ripe for falling, or that it had fallen recently, or that our gunshot had brought it down. The curtain of water was formed by a spring of fresh water. There are always dozens of such springs in cliffs. As to the foot of the shaft, the explanation is that at the time the miners were at work the sea had not eaten so far inward. In fact, that whole district is and has been gradually so enormously undermined, that soon a mighty subsidence must take place."

"But you say that the hole down to the mine slanted. How did he get up and down? It would have been barely possible, but dangerous, to crawl up."

"He had a rope by which to hold on, and while holding on thus, he could walk upright-that is, hand over hand. Before the fall of the planks that covered the top of the shaft, Fahey had crept out by a small opening looking seaward, and concealed from view, if any one ever should be so foolhardy as to go there, by a thick growth of furze."

"Well, what did you do afterwards?"

"When?"

"You told me only as far as coming back from the Puffing Hole."

"True. Well, we laid what remained of the unfortunate man on the rock which had often been his resting-place before, and then rowed back through the wonderful Red Cave, and put the matter in the hands of the police. At the inquest all about the forgery of Davenport and Fahey and the swindle on the Paris bank came out, and Mrs. Davenport was examined, She admitted Fahey had made love to her, as you saw by the papers. Wasn't it strange that Alfred should be the first to see her husband and her husband's partner in guilt dead, and not by natural means, and that at both inquests she spoke of a new lover, and that Alfred, the newest lover of all three, should have been at both inquests?"

"It is astonishing and terrible. I wonder what will come of it?"

"Heaven knows. But there, let it go now, Madge. When you come to Ireland, love, you shall see those wonderful caves."

"I'd rather die," she said, "than go near them."

"What! – if they were lit by the glorious effulgence of this splendid specimen of the O'Briens?"

This dialogue took place one day after dinner in the June following the visit to the cave. The villainous Fishery Commissioners had been overcome, and Jerry and Madge were to be married in a week.

Alfred Paulton was still at the "Strand Hotel," in the village of Kilcash.

CHAPTER XLVII
CONCLUSION

"Marion, will you not listen to me? – will you not listen to reason? Your fortune, you say, is now all gone-must be restored to its lawful owners, the Paris bankers, and that you have made the necessary arrangements for doing so. You are bankrupt in fortune: why should you be bankrupt also in love?"

"Understand me, Thomas Blake, I will speak on this subject no more to you. I do not think you will have the bad taste to remain any longer in this house when I ask you to go."

"I will do anything on earth for you, Marion-anything in reason you ask me."

"Then go."

"But is that reasonable? Is it reasonable to ask me to leave you now that you are as free as you were in the olden times?"

She looked at him wrathfully, scornfully.

"Have you got a second bidder for me in view? Did you not take my heart when it was young, when you were young, and sell it for a sum of money down? You know there is no one in this house but servants. Save yourself the ignominy of my ringing the bell. Sir, will you go? I have affairs to attend to. You have broken your promise by renewing this subject."

"Why did you telegraph for me to London?"

"Because I thought you might be useful to me, and you have proved useless."

"And if I had proved useful, would you have rewarded me?"

"Yes."

"Oh, Marion, Marion, you are playing with me! Do you mean to say you would have allowed me to hope if I had proved of service in that affair? I did my best. I swear to you I did my best, and if you will only give me your hand now-"

"Thomas Blake, I would have rewarded you by saying that your debt to me had been diminished by one useful act of yours. But my contempt for you would have been just the same. Take your elderly protestations of love to fresh ears. Mine are too old and too weary, and too well acquainted with their value, to care much for them. Go now. When I have need of you again I shall send for you."

"Marion, this is too bad. You are treating me as if I were a dog."

"Worse-much worse. We were intended for one another. Once I would have died for you; now I cannot endure you except when I think you may be of use to me. I shall send for you if I should happen to want you again."

His face grew white, and he set his teeth. They were in the green drawing-room of Kilcash House. The full June sun was flaming abroad on the sea, and shining in through the windows.

"You outrage me. I am not accustomed to be-"

"Told the simple truth," she said, finishing the sentence for him. "I threatened to ring."

She went to the bell-rope. He sprang between her and it menacingly.

"I believe you are capable of violence," she said, surveying him with a taunting smile.

"I am capable of murder."

"Only for plunder," she said, still smiling.

He ground his teeth.

"You will drive me to it, Marion Butler."

At the mention of her maiden name, a swift flush of crimson darkened her face. Her eyes flashed, her nostrils dilated, her head bent forward, her mouth opened, the veins in her temple swelled. She clenched her hands-her bosom heaved-she stood still.

The sudden change in her appearance arrested his anger. He believed she was going to have a fit. Her maiden name had not been purposely uttered by him. It loosed some current in the brain which had not flowed for years.

Awhile she stood thus. Then all at once the colour fled from her face, and left it pallid, cold, rigid. She pressed her hand once or twice across her brow, and then, looking at him intently for a few moments, said, in a quiet, weary voice:

"I am ill. Leave me; but come to me soon again. In an hour-half-an-hour. I did not mean what I said. Pray leave me, and come to me soon. I shall be here. I am confused."

Without speaking, and scarcely believing the words he heard, he stole from the room.

She sat down on a couch and covered her face with her hands.

"Wait," she said softly to herself. "There is something I must do-something I have forgotten. Oh, I know! He is an honourable gentleman, and must not be disregarded."

She went over to a table, found writing materials, sat down, and wrote:

"Dear Mr. Paulton,

"I got your note this morning. I told you the first time you did me the honour of offering me marriage that there was no hope. I am sorry to say I am of the same mind still. You will forget and forgive me in time. I shall never forget your kindness to me in my distress.

"Yours sincerely,
"Marion Butler."

She read the note over and over again from top to bottom. Something in the look of it did not please her, but she could not think of anything better to say. She had received a note from him that morning, asking her to grant him another interview. He had proposed to her a week ago. She had told him plainly she would not marry him. He had begged that he might be allowed to call again. She said it was quite useless. He craved another interview, and she gave way, on the understanding no hope was to be based on the permission. He had come again, and again had been refused. And now he was asking for a third chance. She would not give it to him. It would be worse than useless under the circumstances. There was something wrong with this note, but it must serve, as Tom Blake was waiting.

She put the letter in an envelope, addressed it to Alfred at the "Strand Hotel," Kilcash, rang the bell, and sent a servant off with it.

When it was gone she said:

"I must go now and meet Tom. He said he'd be- Where's this he said he'd be? Oh, I know! By the corner of the wood on the Bandon Road. I'll put on the white muslin Tom likes. If Mr. Paulton should come they must say I am out."

Alfred Paulton got the note, and although he could not understand the signature-it was no doubt the result of a lapse of memory, in which she went back for a moment to her girlish days-he knew his dismissal was final.

That day he set off for London, and arrived in time to see Madge married to his old friend, Jerry O'Brien, who was secretly delighted at the failure of Alfred's suit.

While Jerry was on his honeymoon he got a letter from his old friend and solicitor, the postscript of which gave him the latest news of Mrs. Davenport: the doctors had pronounced her hopelessly insane.