“The coat hangs within! Jist rache it, an’ wear it, an’ welcome,” said the operative. To refuse would have seemed particularly suspicious. The prevailing twilight deepened into darkness, and still the Mollies had not started on their errand of bloodshed, but, at about nine o’clock, the stars then shining out brightly, gave them light enough by which to see the pathway, and, bidding the Bodymaster, Secretary, and Mike Carey good-by, they quietly departed. When their retreating footsteps could no longer be heard, McAndrew ordered the operative to go to bed, “unless he wanted more chills,” and took his own route homeward. “Yes, I’ll retire directly.” answered McKenna, who looked around to find Carey lightly dozing on the doorstep. He had no thought of going to his room without at least making an effort, even in his weak condition, to save Thomas or have the assassins arrested in the act. His plans were indistinctly formed, but he was determined to make a desperate movement in some direction. Linden’s whereabouts, since his own recent illness, the detective knew nothing of. The only plan, therefore, possible of accomplishment, was to send off a cipher dispatch to Mr. Franklin. In default of that he must try and deposit a written message in the post-office, addressed to his Philadelphia correspondent. The latter must naturally be too late, still it would show that he was trying to do his duty by the man whose life stood in jeopardy. Waiting until he thought Carey was soundly asleep, McKenna noiselessly arose from his bench, walked rather unsteadily to the door, and tried to pass into the house beyond the slumbering Mollie. As he did so, Carey roused himself, hurriedly rubbed his eyes, and said: “That’s right! Let’s get to bed!” “I’m not slapy, an’ am goin’ to write a letther to me sister before I retire,” said McKenna. “Very well!” responded Carey, “an’ as I’m to slape wid ye the night, ye kin sit up and write, while I’ll jist rest me for the morrow’s work for Morris!” Here was a predicament. The man was right. Transient visitors were monopolizing the spare beds in the house, and Cooney had provided, before retiring, that Carey would share the detective’s couch. What should he do? “Upon the whole,” finally said the operative, “I don’t feel slapy—you see I’ve had rather more of the bed, the past wake, than wur pleasant—an’ so I’ll sit in here, an’ rest me eyes, without any light, for a while. You had better go up, so as to be arley awake fur your breakfast!” “Oh, as fur that matther, divil a bit do I care fur slape, aither! The bedroom is close, this fine avenin’, an’ I’ll kape ye company until it’s made a little cooler!” And Carey placed his knees against one door-post and his head and back to the other, thus completely blocking up the passage-way, and soon begun to snore like the good sleeper that he was.