It was still too dark, though almost daybreak, for a person with the sharpest eyes to see very far in any direction, and the probabilities were that the woman would get to her residence first and succeed in fooling the half-intoxicated McIntyre with the belief that she had deserted the dancing place before midnight. McKenna gave utterance to a long, low whistle, somewhat expressive of surprise and partly seeming like a sigh of relief, as he returned by the road over which he had so recently passed. He walked alone and hurriedly this time. Arrived at the house of Mrs. Breslin, he went directly in pursuit of Con O’Donnel, but that individual was not to be found. He had made his exit. Throwing himself, therefore, upon a bundle of straw, under the branches of a tree, the detective soon forgot his wrath and his troubles in sleep. He had not been long in the land of Nod when he was aroused by the sound of a heavy voice calling loudly from different parts of the premises for Con O’Donnel. Nearing the operative’s improvised bed, McIntyre—for it was he—exclaimed: “Jist tell me where I’ll find that spalpeen, Con O’Donnel, an’ I’ll tache him to be afther playin’ practical jokes on me! I’ll larn him to tell me that Kate’s gone off wid that Jim McKenna! Jist let me lay these two han’s on the mane scut, an’ I’ll mash the life out o’ him! Sure, an’ me wife war slapin’ in her bed, as a dacent woman should be! Oh, tell me where to find Con O’Donnel!” But nobody seemed to know where the object of McIntyre’s anger had taken himself to, and the husband was compelled to satisfy himself with some more whisky-punch, and then subsided, by the wall of the sweet-smelling pig-pen, into a drunken stupor, from which, had he appeared, even Con O’Donnel would have failed to arouse him. So Mrs. McIntyre had succeeded in duping her husband! This was sufficient to send the weary operative off again into slumber, and it was an hour after sunrise when he awoke. As he had expected, only three or four of the Hazelton Mollies were fit to return. The remainder could not be made sensible, and were scattered in various grotesque attitudes, like bodies on a sanguinary battle-field, about the dancing-grounds, oblivious to all surrounding them, where they were left to take care of themselves, while the detective and his more sober comrades pursued their path down Buck Mountain to the village.