“I havnen’t a doubt of it,” replied the old gentlemen shortly. “Thank goodness, her evidence will hang the villain, whoever he may be.” “Ah, the poor thing, the poor thing!” murmured the servant, and then the sad procession entered the house. The body was laid on a table. It would have been useless to send for a surgeon. There was not one to be found within several miles, and it was but too evident that life was extinct. The top of the man’s head was beaten to a pulp. He had been clubbed to death. “If it costs me every shilling I have in the world, and my life to the boot of it,” said Mr. Connolly, “I’ll see the ruffians that did the deed swing for their night’s work.” “Amin,” assented Peter, solemnly; and Jack’s handsome face darkened as he mentally recorded an oath of vengeance. “There’ll be little sleep for this house to-night,” resumed the old gentleman after a pause. “I’m goin’ to look round and see if the doors are locked, an’ then take a look at Polly. An’, Peter.” “Sir!” “The first light in the mornin’--it’s only a few hours off,” he added, with a glance at his watch--“you run over to the police station, and give notice of what’s happened.” “I will, yer honour.” “Come upstairs with me, boys. I want to talk with you. Good-night, Mr. Hayes. This has been a blackguard business, but there’s no reason you should lose your rest for it.” Mr. Connolly left the room, resting his arms on the shoulders of his two sons. Harold glanced at the motionless figure of the murdered man, and followed. He did not seek his bedroom, however; he knew it would be idle to think of sleep. He entered the smoking-room, lit a cigar, and threw himself into a chair to wait for morning. All his ideas as to the Irish question had been changing insensibly during his visit to Lisnahoe. This night’s work had revolutionised them. He saw the agrarian feud--not as he had been wont to read of it, glozed over by the New York papers. He saw it as it was--in all its naked, brutal horror. He had observed that there had been no attempt on the Connollys to appeal to neighbours for sympathy in this time of trouble, and he had asked Jack the reason. Jack’s answer had been brief and pregnant. “Where’s the good? We’re boycotted.” And that dead man lying on the table outside was only an example of boycotting carried to its logical conclusion. The sound of a door closing softly aroused Harold from his reverie. A little postern leading from the servants’ quarters opened close to the smoking-room window. Harold looked out, and, as the night had grown clearer, he distinctly saw old Pete Dwyer making his way with elaborate caution down the shrubery path. “Going to the police station, I suppose,” mused Hayes. “Well, he has started betimes.” Then he resumed his seat and thought of Polly. What a shock for her, poor girl, to leave a happy home with her heart full of innocent mirth, only to encounter murder lurking red-handed at the very threshold!