“By heaven! I’ve got Muff Lawler this time!” said Flynn. “Ye can’t chate me! Pretendin’ to be sick, or lame, won’t save ye! I’m here to kill ye!” [Illustration: “_I guess not, my swate Raparee! Not by these lights!_”] His wild, insane look rested uneasily on the half-concealed figure in the bed, as he said this, not perceiving the fact that McKenna had quietly changed position, and now stood somewhat nearer to him than before. “Oh, I’m not Muff Lawler!” painfully gasped Mulligan, exposing his white, almost spectral features. The voice was stronger than usual. He had summoned all his vital powers to repel that which he might well believe a hateful vision. “I’m only poor, sick, disabled Hugh Mulligan!” Turning his eye to the window, Flynn beheld Lawler, driving away in the buggy, the horse’s head turned toward town. Then he fiercely faced McKenna, and exclaimed: “You’ve saved Muff Lawler, but you are his ‘butty,’ and I’m here to kill one of the two—so it seems you are the one!” “I guess not, me swate raparee! Not by these lights!” And the detective drew his weapon, bringing it close to the man’s face, until the dark muzzle rested, deadly, sullenly cold, in close contact with the ruffian’s bare cheek. Flynn, drunk and infuriated as he was, could not resist that forbidding and blood-chilling argument. It was plain that the lock was set, the man’s finger resting on the trigger. He began to tremble like a poplar leaf in the wind, his color shifted from red to white, the features relaxed, the corners of the mouth fell down, and his whole appearance was fearfully changed. ————●———— CHAPTER XVII. A PECULIAR WEDDING CEREMONY. Flynn obeyed. He could do nothing less, finding himself completely in the power of the enemy and that menacing revolver. It was far from his intention to lose his life, when, by merely complying with McKenna’s simple command, he could insure its immediate or temporary preservation. At this late moment Mrs. Mulligan recovered her voice, and throwing herself between Flynn and her husband, cried out: “Oh, don’t hurt my Hugh! He’s never done anybody any harrum, _sheeling avourneen_! Sure its dyin’ the poor boy is, the moment! An’ its right down cruel of yez to come disputin’ about, disturbin’ us an’ makin’ him the worse! Oh, kill me, if you want to, but don’t hurt a hair o’ him!” “Faix an’ I don’t see that Flynn is about to shoot anybody jist at the present moment!” said McKenna, still keeping the weapon nigh his adversary’s head. “I am in the firm belaif that the boot’s on t’other foot, this time!”