“Swear be all’s blew you saw me runnin’ towards Castle Knock,” came the voice, muted and confidential. “Hold your beastly tongue,” replied Mr Fanshawe, irritated at the way in which the rascal had made him a tool to assist his flight, and the familiar tone of his voice. “Here they are,” said Violet. A spot of dingy scarlet showed through the trees, and next moment Billy Croom, followed by Con Cogan, broke into the glade. “That’s the tree!” cried Con. “Musha! but who’s them?” When the rabble had run Mr Murphy to earth, or rather into the wood, they paused. They did not mind pursuing him across the open a hundred strong. Pursuing him through the wood was quite a different matter, for pursuit through a wood means breaking up into small parties, and there was not a man amongst the lot who would have tackled Mr Murphy, even with the assistance of a couple of others. “Lave him be!” cried the populace. “Sure, you might as well hunt for a needle in the siven acres. More’s the pity, with the reward out aginst him, and all.” “What’s the reward?” asked Billy Croom. “A hundred pound.”[3] Footnote 3: The reward, as entered in the Police Register, was £10; ten times ten makes a hundred. “A hundred pound, and him in the wood!” “Ay, a hundred pound.” “Sure, I’d chase a hundred divils through a hundred woods for that,” said Billy Croom, slipping off his horse. “Here, Bob Mahony, take a hoult of the reins.” “He’ll murther you!” cried the populace. “Will he, begob?” said the whip, his lean, dark, devilish face lighting up with battle. “Mr Croom!” came a voice. It was the voice of Con Cogan, who, assured that the police were absent, had been hanging round the tail of the proceedings like a carrion crow. “What is it?” asked Croom. “I can tell yiz where you’ll find ’um. What will yiz give me?” “I’ll give you a tin poun’ note out of the hundred,” replied the huntsman, approaching close to Con. “Then you can hand it over, for he’s in the ould oak tree widout a top to it.” “Where’s that?” “Sure, where would it be, but in the wood?” The populace tittered. They thought Con was “having” the whip, otherwise such base treachery would have condemned Mr Cogan to a speedy and literal downfall. “What part of the wood?” demanded the whip. “Two hundred yards, maybe, to the lift of the drive, before you rache the turnin’ to the Druids’ Althar.” “He’s gave Paddy away!” cried the onlookers, who perceived from the exact directions that there was no joking in the matter. “He’s bethrayed him—oh, the baste!” “Lave him to me,” said Croom, as disgusted as the rest, but still determined to use Mr Cogan. “Now, then, you holy scarecrow, lay on to the sint, into the wood wid you before me.” They were a picture. The lean, dark-faced whip all fight and energy; Con, with his brigand’s appearance, and his face of an ideal stage-robber, wilting before the other. “Lay on!” cried the huntsman.