Jimmy O’Loughlin’s customers deserted him as soon as the noise of Mrs. Devlin’s wailing was heard in the street. He stood alone behind his bar when the police entered the hotel. He greeted the sergeant heartily, for he was a man of good conscience and unaware of any reason why he should dread a visit from the police. He was struck by the solemn severity with which Sergeant Farrelly replied to his greeting, and became vaguely uneasy. The business of a publican is beset with legal snares which only the most fortunate men succeed in avoiding altogether. Jimmy examined himself rapidly, but failed to discover anything in his immediate past which could bring him under the lash of the law. He was quite sure that batch of convivial friends who absorbed a few dozen bottles of porter on the previous Sunday had entered his house unseen. They had certainly entered it cautiously--by the back door, after climbing over a wall into his yard. His mental attitude was that of the people of the town of Bethlehem when the prophet Samuel came unexpectedly among them. They were not conscious of deserving any kind of denunciation, but they were anxious, and said to the great man: “Comest thou peaceably?” Jimmy O’Loughlin might have repeated their exact words, but he had never heard the story, and was therefore unable to quote from it. His face wore an expression of anxious interrogation. “Did you hear,” said Sergeant Farrelly, “what they’re after telling me about Patsy Devlin?” “What about him?” said Jimmy cautiously. “He’s left the town, and deserted his wife and family.” “Do you say that now?” “It’s not me that says it,” said the sergeant; “but it’s being said.” “I wouldn’t wonder,” said Jimmy, “but there might be some truth in it.” Neither he nor his public-house could be held in any way responsible for the disappearance of Patsy Devlin. He felt free to discuss the event in a friendly way with the police and to give them any information he could so long as he said nothing likely to lead to the capture of Patsy. “I’m told,” said the sergeant, “that the last night he was in Clonmore he spent the most of it along with yourself.” “He might,” said Jimmy. He did not quite see the point of the sergeant’s remark, and felt that he must be cautious. “Could you give me any information about what he intended doing with himself the next day?” “He told me,” said Jimmy, after thinking the matter over, “and it could be that he was telling me the truth--he told me he was going up to the Castle to try if he could get a pound, or maybe two pounds, out of Lord Manton for the sports. He was collecting the town and the district; and he said to me himself that he’d done well. The money was coming in better than ever it did.” “Ah!” said the sergeant with deep meaning. “Just so,” said Jimmy. “And was that what you meant this minute when you said that you wouldn’t wonder if there might be some truth in what they’re saying about him being gone?”