The potato room was a large stone chamber. It had bars to the window, and the window looked out on the stable-yard. It was really a store-room, where all sorts of things were kept—sacks of flour and meal, hams, sides of bacon, everything but potatoes. “In you go,” said Mr Fanshawe, when they reached the door. “I’ll get you a mattress or something to sleep on, and you can tell your story to the police in the morning. Sit down on that sack there and wait till we come back.” “Misther Fanshawe!” said Paddy Murphy, as he took his seat on the sack. “Yes?” “I’m powerful dhry.” “I’ll get you some water.” “Sure, I’m not a dhromedary to be drinkin’ wather at this hour of the night,” said Mr Murphy in a wheedling tone. “I’ll see what I can do,” said Dicky. He shut the door and locked it. “He can have the mattress off my bed, sir,” said Patsy. “Yes, that’ll do. And, see, here Patsy, run up to the dining-room and get a glass of whisky for him out of the tantalus stand; give him a good big one.” Five minutes later Mr Fanshawe re-entered the potato room followed by Patsy dragging the mattress. Mr Murphy was smoking a short black pipe. “Is the ould gintleman a-bed?” asked Mr Murphy, in the tone of a fellow-conspirator, and speaking in a half-muted, confidential voice. “He is,” said Dicky. “Me respects,” said Mr Murphy, tasting the half tumbler of John Jameson. He grinned with satisfaction, and Dicky contemplated him for a moment. This was a type of the human animal he had never come across before. Quite well he knew that, if there were a ghost of a chance, Mr Murphy would have attacked him with the ferocity of a tiger. An atrocious villain—that was Mr Murphy in three words. Yet there was a certain humour and a certain amount of _bonhomie_ in the man that, contrasted with his other qualities, made him, in a way, attractive. “Put the mattress be the furthest corner from the door, Patsy,” said Mr Murphy, as though he were directing a chamber-maid. “And you may lave me the candle, for it’s afeared I am of the rats.” “There aren’t any rats,” said Dicky, “and I’m going to leave you no candle—don’t want the house burnt down. Here—get on your mattress before I take away the light.” Mr Murphy rather grumblingly complied. “I’ll take this ould bit of a sack for a pilla’,” said he, rolling an old sack up and putting it under his head. “Musha! but it smells of onions; no mather, beggars can’t be chosers. Patsy, haven’t you got a blankit to cover me wid?” “Bother the chap!” cried Mr Fanshawe, “we’ve forgot a blanket; hurry off, Patsy, and fetch one.” Patsy did as he was told, and returned in a moment with a blanket. Mr Murphy took it, spread it over himself, drank off the remains of the whisky at a gulp, placed his pipe on the stone floor at his elbow, and turned on his side. “Plesint dhrames,” said Mr Murphy in a drowsy voice. “Same to you,” said Mr Fanshawe. “Now then, Patsy, go before me.”