If Violet and he were missed for an hour, search would inevitably be made for them; they would be pursued and captured. “Mr Fanshawe, sir!” Mr Fanshawe turned in his chair with a start. The door was open, and Patsy was standing in the doorway. Patsy had the appearance of a sleep-walker burthened with a nightmare. “Hulloo!” said Mr Fanshawe. “What’s the matter—what the deuce——” “Mr Fanshawe, sir,” said Patsy, then he paused, rubbed his knuckles in his eyes and broke out, blubbering. “It’s I that am in the thruble and all—it’s I that am in the thruble and all,” blubbered Patsy,—“thinkin’ of yiz lyin’ murthered in your beds, and the young lady and the childer! Oh, wirra, wirra! it’s ten fut under the sod I wish I was before I ever see this day!” “God bless the boy!” said Mr Fanshawe. “What on earth has happened? Who’s murdering who, and what’s it all about?” “I didn’t swear not to tell on thim—bad luck to thim!” said Patsy, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand and suppressing his sobs. “It’s the burgulars I tould you of, Mr Fanshawe.” “What burglars?” asked Mr Fanshawe. “The ones I tould you I dhramed of,” replied Patsy. “I wasn’t dhramin’ at all——” “Then what on earth were you doing?” asked Mr Fanshawe, in whose mind vague suspicious of Patsy’s sanity were beginning to arise. “I was only pritindin’,” replied Patsy. “Look here,” said Mr Fanshawe, “just pull yourself together and clear your mind—what’s all this about burglars and murderers? Out with it, you young beggar, before I take a hunting crop to you.” Encouraged like this, Patsy told his tale. “To-morrow night at twelve, do you say?” asked Mr Fanshawe. “Why, the matter is simple enough: we must tell the police, that’s all.” “The p’leece!” said Patsy with fine contempt. “Sure, the p’leece are all at the other side of the country where the cattle dhrivin’ is goin’ on. Mr Fanshawe, sir!” “Yes, Patsy?” “I was thinkin’ if you was to load wan of thim guns of yours up to the muzzle wid bu’lets——” “Yes, Patsy.” “And stand with it in your fist close to the wall of me room be the window. I’d open the sash. Paddy Murphy would stick the ugly head of him into the room——” “Yes, Patsy?” “Thin you’d let fly wid the gun and blow it aff him.” “Why, you murderous young devil,” said Mr Fanshawe, “do you know what you are proposing—do you know you could be hanged for doing that?” “For doin’ which, sir?” “_Which!_—blowing a man’s head off like that.” “Sure, who’d know?” replied the other. “The p’leece would be so glad to be shut of him, they’d never ax no questions; and wouldn’t he _desarve_ it?” “I don’t know anything about Mr Murphy’s deserts,” said Mr Fanshawe; “he may be bad enough, but I’m not going to assassinate him in cold blood. Patsy, can you keep a secret?” “Tight as a drum,” replied Patsy. “Well, don’t say a word of this to any one, and to-morrow night we may have some fun with Mr Murphy. Did you ever catch a rabbit in a snare, Patsy?” Patsy grinned.