“I’m content with that, sur,” he gratefully responded, “for I hear there’s thaves that think your word surer than the bank. But it’s not much I do know. There’s an empty place in the court down there where Micky lives. It used to be a coal-house, but nobody uses it now, and the roof’s nigh dropping to pieces. Well, I believe if you go to that place and get the door open, and dig up the dross, you’ll find a good deal of what was tuck out of the grocer’s. I think Micky did the job, but anyhow he has a key that opens that place, and nobody but him ever gets a finger near the stuff.” “How did you find out all that?” I promptly demanded. “Did your son tell you?” “Him tell me? Do you think Pat ’ud betray any one, even a black-hearted villain like Micky Hill? No, he’s too honourable, though Micky, I’ll swear, wouldn’t have any such scruples. Must I tell you how I found it out?” “You’d better, if only to save your own character, and take all suspicion away from yourself.” “Well, then, his sister Annie heard him speak it all in his sleep.” I whistled aloud, and the glance I turned on the trembling old man was one more of pity than pleasure. Before the son could have been so full of the knowledge as to be oppressed by it in his dreams, he must have been very deeply involved—probably one of the actual perpetrators—and in that case how could I possibly save him? At the moment I heartily wished that the old man had never come near me. If only he and Micky were in the job, and I nipped up the elder rogue, I knew for certain that he would at once suspect treachery, denounce Pat, and put proof in our hands as well. And then another difficulty immediately occurred to me—even if we searched the cellar and found there the stolen goods, how would that bring conviction on Micky? He had not the shed rented, but had cunningly taken possession unknown to any one, and probably entered it only by night when no one was likely to see him. Altogether the case seemed a knotty problem, and I had to send away Corny with less encouragement and hope than he had looked for. If the old porter had known what awaited him outside, his trembling and fears would have been increased rather than diminished, for in an entry in the close was snugly ensconced the very man he had been denouncing. Micky did not allow himself to be seen, but followed the old man down to the Cowgate, and there allowed him to be some distance along before he made up to him and addressed him. “Fine morning, Corny,” he said, with a wicked leer, which struck the old man with a nameless dread. “Is it, then?” he hotly retorted; “then you’ll see to keep away from me.” “Where have you been so early?” asked Micky, smiling and looking more wicked than ever. “Where you’ll——” The Irish blood of the old man was up, and the two words were out before he knew. He checked himself, however, and walked off without a word more.