As the dogcart left the park gates, a remark that the coachman had made to Larry Lyburn that morning recurred to Patsy’s mind. Larry had drawn the cart out of the coach-house for inspection. Dan, the coachman, had been passing, and Dan, who had the eye of an eagle for faults, had made a remark on the hub of the off wheel. “There’s a crack in the hub of the off wheel you could put your nose into,” said Dan. “Crack in your eye,” said Larry; only it wasn’t “eye” he said. That was all. Dan passed on with the bucket of water he was carrying, and Larry turned the dogcart cushions to air in the bit of winter sun that was peeping over the stable roof. Patsy, who had overheard the remark and Larry’s reply, scarcely gave the matter a second thought. He no more doubted the opinion of Larry on a hub than a country doctor would doubt the opinion of Sir Frederick Treves on an appendix. That is to say, Larry in his sober senses. The question troubling the mind of Patsy now was whether Larry’s senses were in a sober frame when he flung his diagnosis as to the condition of the off hub at Dan’s head in the form of an unprintable retort. In other words and plainer English, he was wondering at what o’clock had Larry begun at the whisky. Mr Fanshawe had given Patsy the sovereign on account to hand to Larry the previous night, and now Patsy remembered, with a chill at the heart, having seen little Billy Meehan, an anæmic sprite of seven, a hanger-on and errand-runner at the Castle Knock inn, passing the kitchen door quite early that morning carrying something wrapped up in a cloth, something that might have been a bottle of spirits. “O Dicky,” sighed Miss Lestrange, “is it a dream—are we really together? I can’t believe it is true.” They had passed the sleeping village and the row of poplar trees at its entrance, and the road was ringing to the merry sound of Fly-by-night’s hoofs. They passed Barn-End, a tiny hamlet, a spore cast-off by Castle Knock; lying two miles and a half towards Tullagh. “Only a bit over tin miles now, sir,” said Patsy from behind. “Ten Irish miles,” said Mr Fanshawe, looking at his watch; “and it’s now twenty-five minutes past two; we’ve lots of time. There’s no fear of those two old carriage horses overtaking us, is there, Patsy?” “No, sir; but if the General’s able to kick sinse into Larry they won’t be far behind. Larry can make ’em go at a gallop, and wanst they’re started they’ll go all day.” “That’s Castle Connell to the right, sir,” said Patsy after a long interval broken only by the eloquence of Fly-by-night’s hoofs. “Six miles and a quarter, as the crow flies, from Glen Druid. We’re near half-way.” “Patsy reminds me of those advertisements one sees on the railway lines,” whispered Violet, snuggling up close to Mr Fanshawe. “You know the ones, Beecham’s pills, twenty miles to London.” “Are you warm, dear?” asked her companion. “Quite,” she murmured, drawing the mole-skin cloak more tightly around her.