“Good-night to you, and pleasant dreams,” replied Halloran; “the same to your wife.”

The innkeeper followed the tall stranger with his burden to see that everything was made comfortable, put more logs in the fireplace, then turning, said: 

“Is there anything else I can do for you, stranger?”

“Nothing,” replied the man curtly, but as the old innkeeper reached the door he called sharply:  “Yes, I think there is something else that would add to my comfort, and that is a good stiff glass of brandy, if you have such a thing about the place.”

The old man hesitated.

“I’ll pay well for it,” said the other, eagerly.

“You see, we haven’t a license, stranger, to sell drinks, and they’re pretty strict with us hereabouts.  I generally let a man have it when I know him pretty well, but I can’t say how it would affect you.”

“Have no fear on that score,” returned the other.  “Here’s a five-dollar note for a pint bottle of brandy.  Will that pay you?”

“Yes,” returned the innkeeper.  It was the golden key.  The man laughed to see how quickly he trotted off on his errand, returning with the bottle in a trice.

“Anything else, sir?” he said.

“No,” replied the other, “save,” adding, “do not call us too early to-morrow.  We’re not of the kind that rise with the sun.  Nine o’clock will answer.  And see that that wife of yours gets up the best breakfast that can be obtained.”

“You won’t have to complain of that, sir,” exclaimed the innkeeper, pompously.  “You’ll get a piece of steak with the blood followin’ the knife; crisp potatoes, a plate of buckwheat cakes, with butter as is butter, and honey that’s the real thing; a mug of coffee that would bear up an egg, with good old-fashioned cream, not skim milk, to say nothing of—­”

“That will do,” exclaimed the stranger, with an impatient wave of his white hand.  “I never like to know beforehand what I’m going to get.”

“But the lady, sir?  Mebbe she’d like somethin’ kind a delicate like—­a bit o’ bird or somethin’ like that?”

“We’ll see about that to-morrow all in good time,” fairly closing the door in the garrulous innkeeper’s face “Good-night,” and he shut the door with a click and turned the key in the lock, and for the first time he was alone with the girl he had forced so dastardly into the cruellest of marriages.  He had placed Faynie on the white couch.  He crossed the room and stood looking down at her, with his hands behind his back, and a sardonic smile on his face.

“You and your millions of money belong to me,” he cried, under his breath.  “Ye gods! what a lucky dog I am after all!” and a low laugh that was not pleasant to hear broke from his lips.

At that instant a broken sigh stirred the girl’s white lips.

“Ah, you are coming to, are you?” he muttered.  “The old lady’s toddy is beginning to revive you.”