“Stop, or it’s pizened you’ll be,” said Patsy; “it’s not for eatin’. You catch hould of it at both ends, same as you have it now, and pull; but don’t be doin’ it, or——” Bang! Next moment Mr Cogan was across the floor and out of the window. “I told you not,” said Patsy, who had his hand on the sash. “Run, before the house is up and afther you!” “Why didn’t yiz tell me there was gunpowdher in it?” asked Con, whose teeth were chattering. “Stick your ear out of the window, for this is what I’ve come afther. Paddy Murphy will be here at twelve o’clock to-morra night; he’ll be here at the window and give two taps—rimimber what you swore.” “Con!” said Patsy, leaning out into the darkness; but the valiant Con had vanished. Upstairs Mr Fanshawe had slipped on an old shooting jacket, and, quite forgetful of all Lady Seagrave’s prohibitions about tobacco, was enjoying a cigar by his bedroom fire. He was not dissatisfied with his day. He had had a good run with the hounds, and he had been extraordinarily successful in securing a long uninterrupted talk with Violet Lestrange, to say nothing of the Blind-man’s Buff, yet he was disturbed in his mind and anxious. He knew quite well that if he did not succeed in marrying the girl he loved by strategy, he would never marry her at all. General Grampound was not a bad man; he was worse, he was a coldly pig-headed man. He was also a match-maker. Match-making (I do not refer to Lucifers) is an Army disease; it is caught from living in warm climates; it attacks colonels and generals, and they never recover from it. To be a match-maker you must also be a match-breaker. In other words, if you mix and meddle in other people’s love affairs you must inevitably do mischief. The General was determined that Violet Lestrange should marry Mr Boxall, M.P., because, from the General’s point of view, Mr Boxall, M.P., was a “good match.” Mr Boxall was fat, and rather plain, and had a glass eye; that did not matter in the least to the General. Had you remonstrated with him, he would probably have answered you, “Dash, it, sir—the girl’s not going to marry the fellow’s glass eye! He has seven thousand a year, and a tin mine; what more do you want? He doesn’t smoke, he doesn’t play cards, he doesn’t read novels or fritter his time away in rubbish; what more do you want? He’s strong on army reform, and he’s sound on the tariff question; what more do you want? I’ve made up my mind she shall marry him, and marry him she will, if he had a hundred glass eyes—what do you mean, sir, by shoving your oar in and mixing and meddling in other people’s businesses?” Dicky knew his uncle, and that is why he felt it to be impossible to marry her in the ordinary fashion. The only chance was to make a runaway match of it, and do it quick. Yet there were great difficulties in the way. Tullagh station was fifteen miles from Glen Druid. Violet was watched. To get a moment’s conversation with her alone was a most difficult business.