How Mr Murphy could possibly be bound up with that blissful condition you will not discover, however, till you have read the last pages of this story. “Yes, sor,” said Larry, as unmoved as though it were some minor stable matter about which Mr Fanshawe had spoken. “I want you to help.” “Yes, sor.” “You see that rope?” “Yes, sor.” “I’m going to screw that pulley on to the beam.” “Yes, sor.” “We’ll put the rope through the pulley and a running noose at the end of the rope.” “Yes, sor. Axing your pardon, sor, I don’t mind helpin’ in the fixin’ and the bindin’ of him, but I’d rather lave the stretchin’ of him to you, sor.” “The what?” “The stretchin’, sor.” “The hangin’ he means, sir,” said Patsy. “Sure, Larry, that’s not what Misther Fanshawe’s afther.” “Good God!” said Dicky, “you didn’t think I was going to _hang_ the man!” Larry scratched his head. “I thought be the rope, sor——” “Come on,” said Mr Fanshawe, “and I’ll show you what I mean.” He got on the step-ladder and fixed the pulley tight on to the beam with long screws. At one end of the rope, he made a huge running noose, large enough for the body of a man to pass through, then he pulled up the window sash and tacked the upper part of the noose to the lower part of the sash lightly with tin tacks, so that a strong pull would fetch the whole thing away. He passed the free end of the rope through the pulley. A man entering the window would pass through the noose. “See!” said Mr Fanshawe. “We will leave the window just like that; it’s a warm night outside.” “Yes, sor.” “It’s now eleven,” said Mr Fanshawe, “and we have an hour to wait. Patsy will stand by the window, I’ll sit on the bed with this end of the rope in my hand, you sit beside me. When I give the word, and not before, haul for all you’re worth; it will take the two of us to swing him up. Patsy, take the step-ladder away. I shall go and have a whisky and soda, and be back in twenty minutes. You stay here, Larry.” “Yes, sor.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XXIX THE TRAP The moon, nearing the full, was high over the hills, but its light did not enter Patsy’s room, which was in almost black darkness. Sitting on the bed, Mr Fanshawe could see the window, a square of vague light. But for a faint perfume of stables, he would not have known that Mr Lyburn was seated on the bed beside him, so silent and motionless was that individual. Suddenly “Boom! boom!”—the great clock in the turret began striking twelve. The echo of the last stroke died away, and the awful silence returned. Mr Fanshawe began to fidget. “They ought to be here soon now,” he said. “Yes, sor,” replied a voice at his elbow. “You aren’t frightened, are you?” “No, sor.” “You can feel the rope all right?” “Yes, sor.” “Mind, when I give the word, you pull for all you’re worth.” “Yes, sor.”