As he walked, he noted knots of villagers clustered about the cottage doors, evidently discussing some topic of popular concern. In the roadway before the barracks were drawn up two outside cars. A policeman in uniform occupied the driver’s seat on each, and a half-dozen others lounged about in the sunshine by the gate-posts, their rifles slung over their backs and their round, visorless caps cocked aggressively over their ears. These gentry bent upon him a general scowl as he walked past them and into the barracks. A dapper, dark-faced, exquisitely dressed young gentleman, wearing slate-tinted gloves and with a flower in his button-hole, stood in the hall-way--two burly constables assisting him meanwhile to get into a light, silk-lined top-coat. “Come, you fool! Hold the sleeve lower down, can’t you!” this young gentleman cried, testily, as Bernard entered. The two constables divided the epithet between them humbly, and perfected their task. “I want to see the officer in charge here,” said Bernard, prepared by this for discourtesy. The young gentleman glanced him over, and on the instant altered his demeanor. “I am Major Snaffle, the resident magistrate,” he said, with great politeness. “I’ve only a minute to spare--I’m driving over to Bantry with some prisoners--but if you’ll come this way--” and without further words, he led the other into a room off the hall, the door of which the two constables rushed to obsequiously open. “I dare say those are the prisoners I have come to talk about,” remarked Bernard, when the door had closed behind them. He noted that this was the first comfortably furnished room he had seen in Ireland, as he took the seat indicated by the major’s gesture. Major Snaffle lifted his brows slightly at this, and fastened his bright brown eyes in a keen, searching glance upon Bernard’s face. “Hm-m!” he said. “You are an American, I perceive.” “Yes--my name’s O’Mahony. I come from Michigan.” At sound of this Milesian cognomen, the glance of the stipendiary grew keener still, if possible, and the corners of his carefully trimmed little mustache were drawn sharply down. There was less politeness in the manner and tone of his next inquiry. “Well--what is your business? What do you want to say about them?” “First of all,” said Bernard, “let’s be sure we’re talking about the same people. You’ve got two men under arrest here--Jerry Higgins of this place, and a cousin of his from--from Boston, I think it is.” The major nodded, and kept his sharp gaze on the other’s countenance unabated. “What of that?” he asked, now almost brusquety. “Well, I only drove in this morning--I’m in the mining business, myself--but I understand they’ve been arrested for the m---- that is, on account of the disappearance of old Mr. O’Daly.” The resident magistrate did not assent by so much as a word. “Well? What’s that to you?” he queried, coldly.