“Now,” cried he, when he was on his feet, “help me, all of yiz, to clear the rubbage out of the road.” They bent to their task, and in a minute the ruined dogcart was tumbled into the ditch and the road was clear. “Listen!” said Miss Lestrange, who had risen to her feet. The sound of hoofs and wheels came on the night air, and far on the road appeared a carriage rapidly approaching. “Now, Mr Fanshawe,” said Murphy, whipping out his old pistol, “this is him, and I’m goin’ to give yiz a carridge to ride in, but you’ve got to pay for it, begob. One good turn desarves another. Out wid your money or your life!” “Why, you infernal scoundrel!” cried Dicky. “Out wid it!” cried Murphy—“watch and chain and all; times is bad, and I’ve no use for parlymentaries—I’m goin’ to give yiz a carridge to the station; would you have me play highwayman with the ould gentleman and let you go free?” “I see,” cried Dicky, who caught the other’s meaning. “Here you are, if the business has to be done this way, I’d sooner stand in.” “Sure, I knew you would,” said Mr Murphy, now thoroughly sober; “you’re a gintleman to the last button of your wistcoat. Give me the suverins, take back the notes; they’re no use to me, bad cess to them! Now the watch and chain. Thank you kindly. Has the young lady any movables?” “Only this bracelet,” said Violet. “Kape it,” said Mr Murphy; “bracelits is no use to me. Now it’s my turn. Con!” Con presented his back and Mr Murphy mounted. The carriage was only a few hundred yards off, and the pair of ruffians, one on the back of the other, stood square before it on the roadway. “Hulloo! hulloo!” cried Larry, reining in. “What are yiz? Why, it’s Paddy Murphy!” With the stopping of the carriage the door flew open and General Grampound came out of the vehicle like a bombshell. He exploded on the road into unprintable language. Then he found himself fronting Murphy’s red, grinning face, and a pistol held within a foot of his head. “Wan word out of you and I’ll blow your skylights off!” cried Murphy. General Grampound’s long army experience had taught him to know an utterly desperate ruffian when he met one. “Into the carridge wid you, Mr Fanshawe,” cried Murphy. “I’m wid yiz, miss,—I won’t harm the ould gintleman if he keeps a dacent tongue in his head, but I’m goin’ to give him a lesson in dancin’—away wid yiz! Good luck, and send me a piece of the weddin’ ceek.” “Patsy, get on the box and come with us,” cried Mr Fanshawe as he bundled Miss Lestrange into the carriage and into the arms of Doris and Little Lord Gawdor, “the children are all right. Larry will drive them back. I’m very sorry,” he cried over his shoulder to his uncle; “it’s your own fault, if you have to walk home. This scoundrel has taken my watch and chain and all my money—nearly. I’ll write.” “Larry,” cried Mr Murphy as the carriage drove off. “What is it?” “If you miss the thrain I’ll boot your ribs in to-morrow mornin’.”