“Very well, you can arrange with him. Now cut off and get the bag.” He went to his room and took a Boss double-barrelled choke bore from its case, fitted it together, put it under his arm, put on a cap, and joined Patsy, who was waiting in the hall with the cartridges and the bag. “Down be the woods to the right, sir,” said Patsy, as he trotted beside him. “If you sit be the hedge still as a stone, they’ll be poppin’ out all around you and playin’ in the grass.” But Mr Fanshawe did not care for the prospect of sitting still as a stone under a hedge and potting unsuspecting rabbits playing in the grass. “There’s a bit of water, down beyond these woods to the right,” said he. “There is, sir.” “I’ll go that way—may have a chance of a duck. See here, Patsy!” “Yes, sir?” “I’m in a bit of a fix, Patsy, and you may be able to help.” “And what’s the fix, sir?” asked Patsy. “You know the young lady you gave the note to this morning—by the way, how did you give it?” “I tried to shove it undher her door, sir.” “Yes?” “It wouldn’t go, so I give a knock. ‘Who’s there?’ says she. ‘No one,’ says I; ‘it’s only hot wather I’m bringin’ you,’ for you see, sir, the ould missis, her ladyship, was in the next room, and she’s not as deaf as she looks, and it’s afraid I was, every minit, her door’d open, and she and her ear-trumpet come out in the passidge. ‘I have hot wather,’ says she. ‘Niver mind,’ says I, ‘this is bether. Open the door, for the love of God, for I can’t get it under the door, unless I rowl it up and shove it through the keyhole.’ Wid that she opens the door a crack and shoves her head out. ‘Who’s it from?’ she says. ‘I don’t know,’ says I; ‘it’s just a lether I found on the stairs I thought might belong to you.’ ‘Thanks,’ says she, ‘it does,’ and wid that she shut the door, and I left her.” “Well, see here, Patsy!” “Yes, sir?” “I’m going to marry Miss Lestrange.” “Faith, and I guessed that,” said Patsy; “and it’s I that’d be joyful to dance at your weddin’, sir.” “There won’t be any dancing in the business,” said Mr Fanshawe grimly. And here, strangely enough, he was perfectly wrong, albeit the dancing was to be of a more than fantastic character. “You know Mr Boxall, Patsy?” “The Mimber of Parlymint?” “Yes. Well, _he_ wants to marry Miss Lestrange; and the worst, of it is, Patsy, that my uncle, General Grampound, wants him to marry her, too.” Patsy chuckled. “Sure, he’s one eye short,” said he. “That may be,” replied Mr Fanshawe, “but Mr Boxall is very rich, and, the fact of the matter is, I have determined to marry Miss Lestrange without asking any one’s opinion or permission. The fact of the matter is, I am going to run away with her, Patsy, and marry her in Dublin; the bother is how to get to the station without being caught.” “What o’clock was you thinkin’ of runnin’ off wid her, sir?” asked Patsy, in the most matter-of-fact tone in the world.