“Oh, your bidroom bell,” replied the servitor. “Sure, it’s ears as long as some people I could name I’d want to hear it, for it rings in the kitchen four flights of stairs and twinty-siven passidges away.” “Hold your tongue,” replied Mr Boxall. “And now that you are here, go and fetch me my dressing-bag.” “All your luggage is in your room, sir,” replied Patsy, “for I helped William, the under-gardner, with it.” “Come here,” said Mr Boxall, smothering the resentment with which Patsy as the red-headed embodiment of the Irish race filled his Anglo-Saxon spirit. “Now stand in the doorway, stand fair and square and look around you, and—if you have eyes in your head—point me out my dressing-bag.” “There it is, sir,” said Patsy, pointing to the dressing-bag, which was standing in a shady corner, with a travelling rug half covering it. “Get out!” said Mr Boxall. He shut the door in the red-headed one’s face, and Patsy took up his can of hot water. “I’ll be even wid yiz yet, ould glass eyes!” said Patsy, as he carried the can towards Mr Fanshawe’s room. Mr Fanshawe had not yet returned from the chase. Patsy put the hot water can down by the wash-stand, and then looked around to see what more he could do. Patsy in a few hours had attached himself to Mr Fanshawe just as a dog attaches himself to a man. He would have gone through fire and water for Mr Fanshawe, but as that was not required of him, he expended his energy in the polishing of his boots and the brushing of his clothes. Having looked around and seen that everything was trim, he went downstairs to help James, the butler. Half an hour afterwards, coming up the main staircase on some errand and hearing the swish of silk, he glanced up and caught a glimpse of a spacious and portly dame descending the stairs. It was Lady Molyneux in all her glory—low evening dress, tiara of diamonds, necklace of diamonds, bracelets and all. Lady Molyneux, with rather questionable taste, invariably put on all her diamonds for dinner. She looked like a jeweller’s shop in motion, and Patsy, alarmed at having to face so much magnificence, popped himself behind the arras on the landing. The arras was old and dusty and smelt of rats; it was a bit tattered, too, and through a hole in it Patsy watched Lady Molyneux pass by, and gasped at the magnificence of the spectacle. The remembrance of Paddy Murphy came to him with a cold chill; to-night, to-morrow night, any night now the knock might come to the window and he would be bound to open it. He stood reviewing this frightful certainty and watching the back view of Lady Molyneux as she descended the stairs. The thought which had been comforting him for some days past, that, though he had sworn to open the window for the burglars he had not sworn not to tell, came to him, coupled with the recollection of Mr Fanshawe’s guns.