When McKenna paused before the house, from the interior came sounds of rude music, evidently emanating from some discordant and faultily-fingered violin. He succeeded, however, in recognizing an air to which he had tripped many a jig in the old country. Considering for a moment the course he should take, the detective gave his tangled locks an extra twist, stuck his hat on one side of his head, rolled unsteadily up to the door, fumbled awkwardly with the knob, finally turned it, and stood in the bar room. The picture then presented to his eye was considered not uncommon to behold in the mining district, yet rather striking to and never to be forgotten by an uninitiated spectator. The place exposed to view was about half filled with men, the majority of whom were clad in rough attire—somewhat different from the miner’s shifting clothes, however—and, with their companions, stood and sat around a sprinkling of citizens, mechanics, street laborers, and others. Pat Dormer, towering high above all, and whose form the detective was not slow to single out and know, through Jennings’ description, seemed to be making himself actively useful outside, conversing glibly with his customers, while his spouse, fresh-faced, short in figure, and matronly looking, stood behind the counter, dispensing with steady hand, ready smile, and pleasant word the various stimulants in demand by her patrons. In one corner, uneasily perched at the top of an empty whisky barrel—stolid of eye and face, frowzy-haired, low-browed, stunted in body, long of arm, and crooked spined—was the spasmodic little fiddler, drawing away industriously at his bow, his sallow cheek resting caressingly on the old violin, and producing semi-musical tones not so easily understood as entering into the composition of that frolicsome piece, called “The Devil’s Dream.” With one big, boot-clad foot he kept time irregularly against the staves forming part of his throne. [Illustration: _“He struck an attitude and without further prelude began his best Irish break-down.”_]