“Let them send me up a little chicken,” said the sufferer, “or anything light—no champagne, thanks. I have put this bandage on to relieve the pain. Thank you, I am better. I do not believe in drugs.” The tea-things were removed, and the dinner was brought up by Patsy. “Put it on the table, and don’t disturb those papers,” said Mr Boxall, who was seated in an armchair with a bandage over the side of his head. “Not on the papers—have you no sense?” “Yes, sir,” said Patsy. “Can I be afther fetchin’ you anything more, sir?” “No; come up in half an hour for the tray.” At ten o’clock Mr Boxall had made up his mind. The hall was generally deserted at night; he would come downstairs, cross the hall, and leave the house by the front door. If any one saw him, he could say that he was going on the lawn for a breath of fresh air. The bandage across his forehead he retained, and it, half covered by a forage cap, gave him somewhat the appearance of a hospital out-patient as, muffled in an overcoat, he descended the stairs at half-past ten and crossed the hall to the front door. The door was only held by the catch; Mr Boxall opened it, passed out, and closed it softly behind. Less than five minutes later old James, whose duty it was to see things settled for the night, put the chain on the front door and drew the heavy bolts. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XXVII MIDWINTER NIGHT’S DREAM It was a beautiful night, lit by the rising moon and a million stars. Mild almost as a night in summer, voiceless as the tomb, cloudless and perfect. The great stars, winter-clear, burned right down to the roof of the woods, and amidst the trees the moonlight made Fairyland of the glades. Listening, one could hear occasionally the cry of an owl, and occasionally, a great way off, from the neighbourhood of the Galtee woods, the bark of a fox. Mr Boxall descended the steps and glanced around; it was a few minutes past half-past ten, but there was no trace or sign of Miss Lestrange. A chill came to his heart: the monstrous idea, “Can I have been fooled?” crossed his mind, and was banished. He stepped from the gravelled drive to the grass and stood for a moment inhaling the balmy air and looking around him. In the middle of the lawn there was a great old sundial supported by a group of fauns and satyrs, moss-grown and mysterious. Mr Boxall’s eye fell on this thing, and just at that moment, over the top of the sundial, appeared a face. It was not the face of Miss Lestrange, it was a round and tallow-white face—the face, in fact, of Micky Mooney. Micky beckoned, and Mr Boxall drew close till he got within touching distance of the sundial. “Are yiz Misther Oxhall?” asked Micky in a low and confidential voice, plucking at the moss on the sundial as he spoke, and seeming to address it.