Being a man of high intelligence, with a natural taste for conspiracy, he acted in the wisest possible way. Without the smallest display of emotion, or a single glance at the window from which the communication had come, he turned and slouched carelessly towards the yard gate. It was flung open before he reached it, and Mr. Red, a revolver in his hand, strode forward. Patsy displayed great presence of mind and resource. “I’m just after knocking at the back door, your honour,” he said, “thinking that it might be more agreeable if I didn’t go round to the front, where maybe you’d be entertaining company. It was that I was collecting a trifle from the gentry round about for the grand annual horse races and athletic sports that does be held every year up beyond in Jimmy O’Loughlin’s big field. And the committee would feel pleased, your honour, if you’d act as a vice-president or a starter, or the like, along with Lord Manton from the Castle.” Mr. Red raised the revolver and pointed it at Patsy’s head. “Hand me that note,” he said. “Sure your honour’s joking. What would a poor man like me be doing with a note? If you’re the gentleman they say you are, it’s yourself will be giving a note to me, and maybe a five-pound note, for the sports.” Mr. Red took four steps forward, and stood so that Patsy had every opportunity of looking into the barrel of the revolver. “Right about turn,” he said; “march!” “I was in the militia one time,” said Patsy, “and I know well what you’re saying. If it’s into the house you want me to go through the back door, I’m willing. But there’s no need for you to be looking at me that way or to be reaching out at me with your pistol. If you think I’m here trying to steal a motor car on you, you’re making a big mistake. Anybody can tell you that I wouldn’t do the like. If I wanted to itself I wouldn’t be able. I couldn’t drive one of them things no more than fly.” “March!” said Mr. Red. He held the revolver within a couple of inches of Patsy’s head. “A gentleman like yourself,” said Patsy, “likes his bit of a joke. I know well it’s only funning you are and that it’s not loaded; but I’d be obliged to you if you’d point it the other way. Them things goes off sometimes when you’re not expecting them.” By way of demonstrating that it was loaded, and that he was not “funning,” Mr. Red fired a shot. The bullet went quite close to Patsy’s head and buried itself in the kitchen door. Patsy, convinced that he had to do with a dangerous lunatic, turned quickly and walked into the kitchen. From the kitchen he was forced, at the point of the revolver, up several flights of stairs. He was bidden to halt at last opposite a door. Mr. Red produced the key from his pocket, and, still keeping the revolver levelled at Patsy, opened the door. “Enter,” he said. “Be damn! but I will, and I’ll be all the better pleased if you’ll stay outside yourself.”