“Tare an’ ages!” cried Shan, letting fly his whip at a harrier that had got a rabbit-beagle down on its back and was making for a hold in its throat, “them two dogs is the Siamese twins for fighting. Loose her, you baste, or I’ll cut the coat off your back! What is this you were sayin’, Mr O’Rourke?” The farmer, who had “tumbled” to the reason of Shan’s deafness, produced a flask from his pocket. Shan applied it to his lips, half emptied it, replaced the cork, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and was about to give the required information, when, bursting through the crowd, came Patsy. “Shan,” cried Patsy, “I’ve run hot-fut from the Big House to tell yiz the quality are comin’ to the meet, and you’re to wait for thim if so be they’re late.” “Listen to that now!” murmured the surrounding throng. “Right y’ are, Patsy,” replied Shan, with a glitter in his eye, for the presence of the “quality” meant tips, and maybe a subscription to the pack. “And how many of them are coming, Patsy.” “Faith, I dinno,” replied Patsy; “but Mr Fanshawe is comin’, sure, and he never pulls out less than a suverin when he puts his hand in his pocket. And then there’s the Mimber of Parliament, and the ould Gineral, and the young lady wid the blew eyes, and the childer—and it’s back I must be runnin’, or it’s me place I’ll be losin’.” “Away wid yiz, then!” cried Shan; and Patsy departed, running. That morning at eight, when Patsy had brought up Mr Fanshawe’s shaving water, the latter had handed to him a note which he had written before going to bed. “Patsy,” said Mr Fanshawe, “you’re a boy I can trust; there’s a note there on the dressing-table—do you see it?” “I do, sir.” “Well, it’s for the young lady—Miss Lestrange. I want you to give it to her; but, look here, Patsy, I don’t want any one to know about it——” “Sure, I could slip it under her door,” said Patsy; “she slapes in the room next to her ladyship.” “Yes, that will do. It’s only a note asking her to go to the meet this morning; it’s at ten, you say?” “Tin o’clock at the big gates,” replied Patsy. “Shan Finucane is the huntsman, and he’ll be in the village collecting the dogs be nine. I’ll just slip down to him and tell him not to start wid the dogs till you’re on the spot; it’s plazed he’ll be to wait, for it’s not often the quality follows the dogs, only Mr Frinch, and the village rubbish, and maybe a farmer or two from Tullagh way. Is there anything else I can be gettin’ you, Mr Fanshawe?” “No, that’s all,” replied Mr Fanshawe. “Just put the note under the door, as you say, and don’t let any one see you.” There was nothing treasonable in the note; it ran:— “Come to the meet of the beagles this morning. Some of the rest of them are sure to go, but we may find an opportunity to have a few words together. _Put on a short skirt and a pair of thick boots._ Excuse these rather mysterious instructions, but I have a reason for it. DICK.”