McParlan was trying to learn facts by appearing to have them partly in possession. “I thought ye knew somethin’ of the matther,” continued Mike, “but don’t ye brathe divil a word to Pat, me big brother, that I hev been chatterin’ here wid ye, fur he’d be worse nor a mad dog over it! I don’t know when Jones is to be shot—an’ possibly the thing has been given over—but when Aleck Campbell makes up his mind to a thing it generally has to be done sooner or later, so I rather opine that it will come off yet!” “I suppose it was Boyle who fired the shot that brought Yost down?” “You’re wrong there, then, for it wor McGehan’s pistol what performed the thing nately! But there’s brother Pat, an’ I must be goin’! Don’t you say anythin’!” “Depend upon me!” said McParlan. They entered the bar-room, the operative hoping he might meet Boyle, described to him as a low-sized, stoutish man, with dark hair and mustache. But Boyle was not among the new visitors. McParlan treated to the best, paid his reckoning, and, with Mike, went to Campbell’s, where the afternoon was spent at cards. The games ended when Pat McKenna came in, just from his work at the mine. This person was a fine physical type of a man, six feet four inches in height, well built and proportioned, of fair complexion, and apparently twenty-five years of age. He was glad to see McParlan again and accompanied him to his father’s house, and they had drinks at Pat’s own expense, who then proceeded home to change his clothing. Mike, meanwhile, took occasion once more to caution the operative against saying anything about their talk of the forenoon. He was reassured when McParlan suggested that he was no _cruddy_ idiot, and reiterated his promise to observe great care over his lips. “Trust me to know better than to blather over what is tould me in confidence!” were his concluding words. Subsequently, Pat McKenna, when given the opportunity, confirmed his brother’s revelations, confessing that men from his division had shot Yost, but he would go no further. The names he kept to himself. The detective slept, that night, at the residence of young Pat McKenna, retiring at the early hour of three A.M.