By this step I obtained the first tangible justification of my suspicions against Pat. He had assigned, in part at least, a false reason for his absence. At about the same time, I consulted one of the Brooklyn penny-posts, whose beat took in Pat's residence, and who reported that he had on several occasions recently met him with a gun on his shoulder, apparently starting on a hunting excursion. He was very poor when he entered the office, and by way of testing his ability to live without work, it was arranged with an agent for procuring laborers for a Western railroad, to call on him, and offer him a chance to go to Illinois as foreman of a gang of hands. But it was "no go." His health was too precarious for that. Thus matters went on for some time longer, when one day, very much to my surprise, Pat entered the post master's room, and with a woe-begone look, and most melancholy tone of voice, commenced apologizing for his apparent neglect of duty. I was busily engaged in writing at the time, and so continued, hoping that he would not recognise me, as it afterwards appeared he did not. "Misther Fowler," says he, "I wish to spake to your honor about meself. Ye see, sir, I've been unfortunate, and didn't come to me task; and the cause is, sir, that I've been sick meself with a terrible diarrhoee (placing his hand on his abdominal region,) and what is more painful than that (still keeping his hand in the same position, instead of changing it to the region of the heart,) I have buried a darling boy, your honor; and sure isn't it enough to turn the brain of a poor divil? Ah, may the like on't niver happen to yourself, sir!" And a big tear rolling down his cheek, attested the _sincerity_ of his grief. A momentary fear that the post master might intimate something of our suspicions, was speedily relieved by his shrewdly remarking that he was sorry for his (Pat's) misfortunes, and that he had no fault to find, except that he ought to have sent more particular word as to the cause of his detention. Pat thanked his employer, and backing out of the room, promised to be at his post that night. "Well, what do you think of him?" inquired the postmaster. "I think," said I, "that if he _is_ the robber, and can come here and appear in that way, he is smarter than either of us. But we shall see." For the week following, but few of his movements were unknown to me. His duties at night were very indifferently performed, and the hours during the day usually improved by the other night clerks for rest, were by him devoted to dissipation; so that, before half the night had passed, he would often be found in some out of the way place, fast asleep.