Notwithstanding the fact that McKenna had tasted nothing stronger than water, coffee, and Cronk beer, throughout the day—in truth during several days—he was so much overpowered, apparently with liquor, when he reached the front door of the Columbia House, the same night, that he fell sprawling across the threshold, his satchel flying in one direction and his hat in another. His old acquaintance, Marks, the landlord, was compelled to fly to his assistance, gather up his scattered goods and chattels, lead him to a seat, and finally escort him safely to a room and bed, the besotted guest all the while muttering to himself almost unintelligible Irish jargon, about some “_dawshy-dawshy, allana machree_, all the way from auld Erin,” that he had been to call upon, and the “bastely _calliagh_, her mother, had forbidden him the house, bad cess to her night-cap!” In truth, he was maudlin over some one that be named his “_colleen bawn_, wid the _rucket_ head!” Marks left him upstairs, without a lamp, stretched on the bed to find the way under the covers as best he might. No sooner had the landlord made an exit than the detective ceased his mutterings, arose, ran lightly and soberly to the entrance, turned the key in the lock, and hung his hat cautiously over the knob, as was his custom. Then, weary and worn, and as sick as a man well could be and still retain his senses, he undressed himself and retired. The few of McKenna’s Tamaqua acquaintances who recognized him as he staggered up the street had no desire to trouble the man in his evidently advanced state of intoxication, and either turned off into by-streets and avoided his presence, or failed to look in his direction. The word was passed about the city, during the evening, that “that wild Irishman, from Shenandoah, Jim McKenna, was in town again, on a rousing spree, and would probably make things uncommon lively the ensuing day.” Meanwhile the overtasked operative was sleeping calmly and peacefully, and sweetly dreaming that he sat once more in his home, by the western shore of Lake Michigan, hearkening to the soft sound of the waves as they broke ripplingly upon the sandy beach, whispering tales of other days, that in his waking hours were almost effaced from remembrance. The morning sun shone brightly when the agent awoke, donned his miserable attire, and prepared to continue the simulated debauch, which, he knew, would serve as a veil for his real object in visiting Tamaqua, and in the end, he hoped, bring him in communication with the murderers of Yost. ————●———— CHAPTER XXXVI. IN THE MURDERER’S NEST.