“Why, I’m blest if it isn’t the burglar chap!” said Mr Fanshawe. The body belonging to the face came forth from behind the tree-bole, and Mr Murphy, greatly tattered, evidently exhausted, but still grinning, stood before them. “Faith,” said Mr Murphy, with a tone of happy recognition, “it’s yourself, sor, and glad I am to see you.” “Can’t return the compliment,” said Mr Fanshawe. “I’m bone dry,” said Mr Murphy, drawing the back of his hand across his mouth. “Near run off me legs. I’ve left me ould hat in the brambles beyant, and it’s sorry I am to appear before the young lady all rags an’ tatters—whisht!” Shouts and haloos came from the distance, and the yapping of a dog. “They’re afther me still!” said Mr Murphy, as though he were speaking to confederates. “Listen to ’um, Mr Fanshawe, sir, you’re a gintleman, you won’t be givin’ me away, will you, if they axes have you seen me?” “Not I,” said Dicky. “But don’t waste time here talking, hook it as hard as you can; they are coming.” “Unhappy man!” cried Violet, gazing with dilated eyes at the tattered figure before her. “Make haste! Dicky, have you no money to give him to help him? Listen—they are coming—don’t wait to be taken—fly!” “It’s into the tree I’ll be flyin’ if you get off me dure-step, miss,” said the pursued one, buttoning the one button of his coat and preparing to climb. “It’s me house is this ould tree, an’ I’ve lived in her a month wid me ear to the ground for the polis. Aisy does it.” He got on to the moss-grown root, placed his arms round the bole, and, scrambling like a great tom-cat, in half a moment was gone from sight. “Come,” said Dicky to the girl, “let us go.” “Wan minit,” came a voice from the tree. “Well, what is it?” “Sure, y’ ain’t goin’ to lave me!” complained the voice. “If they strike the ould tree they’ll sarch it sure. Misther Fanshawe!” “Yes?” “For the love of God, sit down an’ talk aisy to the young lady. There’s Con Cogan knows I’ve hid here, and wan or two more—the sight of the young lady will drive thim away as the blessed angels drives the divils.” “Well, of all the cheek!” said Mr Fanshawe. “Dicky, dear!” said Violet, laying her hand on his arm. “He’s running away.” “Well, what of that?” “Think, if _we_ were running away, if we were chased, and if we found a tree to hide in, think how glad we would be to have some one to—to help us.” “Listen to her voice!” came a voice from the tree that seemed communing with itself. “Sure, it’s like running wather over pebbles to hear her.” “It would be unlucky for us,” went on she, “not to help a person who——” “Yes, it would,” said Dicky. “Sit down. All right—we’ll do what we can for you.” “God in hivin bless you; may God in hivin rain His blessin’s on you; may the saints make your bed, and the howly angels smooth your pillas; may the——” “Shut up!” said Mr Fanshawe. “Listen!” said Violet. Voices were audible in the wood close by.