“Yes, sir,” replied Patsy. “Sure, it’s a fine night for a smoke under the stars. Mr Fanshawe, sir!” “Yes?” “The childer are in the nursery, sir,” said Patsy in a muted voice, as though he were imparting some State secret. “Oh, they are, are they?” said Mr Fanshawe, rather surprised at the mysterious tone of the communication. “And what are they doing—no mischief, I hope?” “The young lady is wid them,” said Patsy. “There’s no wan else up there, but, sure, they’re safe enough wid her.” There was the faintest suspicion of jocularity in Patsy’s tone, so faint as to be almost indiscernible. Still it was there, and as there was nothing jocular in the remark of which the tone was, so to speak, the envelope, it was more particularly noticeable. “Patsy!” said Mr Fanshawe, who had taken a few steps from the door, turning and trying to make out in the surrounding darkness the small figure of his informant. But Patsy had vanished. “Confound the boy!” said Mr Fanshawe. “What did he mean?” Instead of a cigar he took a cigarette from his pocket, lit it, smoked it half through, flung it away, and re-entered the house. As he was crossing the hall he came upon Uncle Molyneux, who had just escaped from the dining-room, and who did not look cheerful. “Come and have a game of billiards,” said Uncle Molyneux. “I can’t for a moment,” replied Dicky hurriedly, “for I’m just running up to the nursery to say good-night to the children.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XVII THE STORY OF THE PIG “Now sit down, Bob, and do try to behave yourself; Selina shall sit in my lap if she will promise to be good, and I will tell you a story—Doris, leave the poker alone—Dear me, dear me,” said Miss Lestrange, suddenly assuming a grandmotherly tone, “who’d be worried by children? Where is my snuff-box and my cane?—Well, then, sit still and count ten to yourselves all round whilst I think of a story.” She was seated in the old broken-down nursery rocking-chair with Selina in her lap; there was no lamp, and the flickering fire-light lit the interminable man driving his pig to market and the broom-like tail of the rocking-horse, whose body was lost in shadow. “Ten!” suddenly yelled Lord Gawdor. “I’d only got to nine,” said Doris. “Bob counts so quick. No matter, begin the story.” “I haven’t thought of one yet,” said Miss Lestrange. “What shall it be? Selina is the youngest, and she shall choose; what would you like a story about, Selina?” “Pigs!” replied Selina after a moment’s deliberation, during which her eyes had wandered round the walls of the room in search of inspiration. “I’m afraid I can scarcely rise to pigs,” said Miss Lestrange. “Think again, Selina; shut your eyes and think hard. How would a story about a giant do?” Selina thought for a moment, and then, with the air of a person who had quite made up her mind: