“I b’lave so, sir,” said Patsy in the same tone of voice. “I slipped out quarter of an hour ago, and Larry, he’s strawed the yard, and he was openin’ the coach-house dure to get the cart out. He’s done everything all right, but he’s rockin’ drunk.” “Good heavens!” said Dicky. “Oh, he’ll drive all right, sir,” said Patsy. “Drunk or sober is all the same to Larry, as long as he’s got the ribbons in his hand.” A slight sound from above drew Mr Fanshawe’s attention. It was Doris fully dressed, with a candle in her hand, and Bob. Bob was making short slides down the banisters as he came, with one leg hanging over the hall. It only required that he should tumble over and break his leg to precipitate the disaster Mr Fanshawe dimly felt to be impending. “If he does,” thought Dicky, “I’ll break the little beast’s neck, to complete the business.” “Here we are, Mr Fanshawe,” said Doris in a joyful whisper, as she and Bob arrived at the foot of the stairs without accident. Mr Fanshawe did not answer, he was looking up. A faint star of light was gliding downwards, ghostly and glow-worm like. It was Miss Lestrange dressed in a mole-skin cloak, a travelling bag in one hand, and a candle in the other. “Boom—Boom.” The great clock in the turret was striking two. “I’m not frightened,” gasped the girl, as Dicky, forgetting the children and Patsy, clasped her in his arms, “I’m only nervous.” “Now, then, Patsy,” whispered Mr Fanshawe, “lead the way with the candle, we have no time to lose.” Patsy led the way down the corridor to the kitchen. “I’ve iled them,” said Patsy with a grin as he slid the bolts back silently of the kitchen door. “Howld the candle over me shoulder, Misther Fanshawe, that I may see where Larry is.” Mr Fanshawe did as he was asked. Patsy turned the key in the lock and opened the door. “O Glory be to God!” said Patsy. It did not require a candle to light the picture, the full moon did it. In the middle of the yard, which was deeply strawed, stood the great old family coach in which Lady Seagrave took her airings, harnessed to it were the two stout white coach horses, one of which, hearing the faint sound of the opening door, turned its fiddle-shaped head and surveyed the newcomers with a flickering, subdued whinny. On the straw, face down, arms spread out, and the moonlight exhibiting the two tarnished buttons on the back of the old livery coat he had slipped on, lay Larry. “Great heavens!” said Mr Fanshawe, “look at the thing he has harnessed!” “He’s got it all muddled wid the whisky, sir,” whispered Patsy. “There’s nothin’ to be done but get the dogcart out ourselves and put the old mare to.” He gave Larry a kick with his foot, and Larry gave a grunt. “He’s full up,” said Patsy, as though he were speaking about a decanter. “Couldn’t we go in this thing?” asked Mr Fanshawe. “I could drive.”