“Where are the dogs and things?” asked Miss Lestrange, as she sat on a grassy bank under the shelter of a thick hedge, panting and arranging her hat.

“I don’t know,” replied Mr Fanshawe. “I only know he must be a couple of miles away.”

“This was the reason you wanted me to put on the short skirt.”

“Yes. Wasn’t a bad idea—was it?”

“I don’t know,” sighed she, in a despairing way, and then burst out laughing. “I’m not laughing at him—it’s the whole thing—that man hitting Mr Boxall over the head with a bag of soot—and the little donkey-cart—and that man in the old green coat with the whip—and his tumbling into the ditch, and all these people running after the hounds——”

“And our running away!”

“And our running away!”

“Bother!” said Dicky.

“What’s the matter?” asked Miss Lestrange, who had drawn a long pin from her hat, and was now reinserting it daintily with both hands upheld.

“I was thinking,” said Dicky, “that as we had run away so far we might complete the job, only——”

“Only what?”

“I’ve only five and sixpence in my pockets.”

“Is my hat straight?”

“Perfectly—I wish you’d be serious.”

“Serious about running away with only five and sixpence between us?”

“No, it’s not that,” he replied rather grumpily.

There was silence, for a moment. The ground here was high, and gave a view of vast prospects of dull grey weather, land, locked in the sleep of winter; woods, fields, waste lands, vague hills all neutral-tinted under the grey, drifting sky.

You could see the smoke rising from tiny cabins, you could hear, now and again, the crowing of cocks very far away, you could hear occasionally the melancholy toot of a horn from the invisible Shan, hunting his hares somewhere in the invisible distance, a figure remote from actuality as a huntsman in a dream.

A weak wind blew warm from the south, stirring the withered leaves in the hedge, and a little bird was singing somewhere near by.

“If it were all like this,” said the girl, with a sigh, “it wouldn’t be bad.”

“What?”

“Running away.”

“It will be better than this,” said he, putting his arm round her waist.

“I wish I knew his name,” said Mr Fanshawe, after the lapse of five minutes or so, “and I’d—pension him.”

“Who?”

“That fellow who hit Boxall on the head with the bag of soot.”

“It’s like a dream,” she murmured. “Do you know, Dicky, I don’t think I was really in love with you this morning—it has all come with a rush—this is the real thing.”

“The only thing!” murmured Dicky, speaking into the back of her hair.

“Is my hat straight?” asked Miss Lestrange.

“Perfectly—no, let me tilt it a bit—bless it!—that’s right—to think that it’s mine, and you are mine, and your little boots and every bit of you!”

“You, too,” she said, casting over him a loving glance.

“When it comes to the point,” he said, “I know you’ll be brave. Believe me, it is the only thing to do. I can get a special licence, there will be no difficulty—Aunt Domville will arrange. I’ll write to the Archbishop of Dublin to-day, and his secretary can interview her; it can be done at her house immediately we arrive. We must give a reason for getting a special licence, and the reason I’ll give is that I’m going abroad in a hurry—which,” added Mr Fanshawe, with a grin, “will be the fact, for we’ll go straight to Nice for the honeymoon. Violet, in three days from this you will be my wife.”

“But Dicky—how will we get away?”

“I know, it’s like being in a trap,” said Mr Fanshawe, “but we’ll do it. It’s the fifteen miles to the station that will be the bother. The express from Carlow to Dublin goes through Tullagh station at four in the morning, it doesn’t stop (I’ve been looking up the trains), but I’ll write to the manager of the Great Midland of Ireland and have it stopped, or have a special. This is Tuesday, on Friday morning at four o’clock we’ll be in the train—leave everything to me. Old James, the butler, is a fool and not to be trusted, but Patsy——”

“It’s funny,” said Miss Lestrange, “I was just that moment thinking of Patsy, and that he might help.”

“Patsy is a jewel!” said Mr Fanshawe.

Violet looked at the watch on her wrist.

“It’s after twelve,” she said. “Let’s go back—I’m half afraid—I don’t know what he’ll say, but luncheon is at half-past one, and we must be a good way off. Where are we?”

“I don’t know,” said Mr Fanshawe, looking round; “we must have run in a circle or something, for I’m all mixed up. There’s a lot of woods over there—they may be the woods around Glen Druid; and there’s a lot of woods over there—they may be the woods round Glen Druid—bother!”

“Which is north and which is south?”

“Not having a compass, I can’t tell.”

“Can’t you tell by the sun or the wind—or anything?”

“There’s no sun—and the wind can’t tell us much; besides, if I knew the points of the compass it wouldn’t be a bit of use. I believe there’s a road down over there; let’s make for it—roads generally lead somewhere.”

They made in the direction he had pointed out.

“What are you laughing at?” asked Mr Fanshawe.

“I was thinking of what Mr Boxall said at breakfast.”

“What was that?”

“He said he would come with us if he wouldn’t be in the way.”

“Poor old Boxall! Oh, by-the-bye, that reminds me——”

“What?”

“I don’t know why Boxall should have reminded me, but—I say, you’ll promise not to split if I tell you something?”

“Yes—go on.”

“Well, we’re going to have a burglary to-night.” “A what—when?” asked Violet.

“A burglary to-night. I know it sounds rather funny, but we’re in Ireland, you know. Anyhow, a man is coming to steal old Lady Molyneux’s jewels, and I’m going to catch him. Patsy is going to let him in through his bedroom window, and I’m going to hive him.” He explained the rationale of the affair in a few words.

“What fun!” cried the girl, her eyes sparkling. “Dicky, let me see it.”

“I’m afraid I can’t. You see, it’s Patsy’s room, and late at night and all that, but you’re pretty sure to hear it.”

“I’d like to see it,” pouted Miss Lestrange. “Well, promise me this—when you’ve caught him, and tied him up, will you call me down and let me see him?”

“I’ll see,” said Dicky.

“I don’t think things like these could happen anywhere else but in Ireland or a—dream,” said Miss Lestrange, as he helped her through the hedge on to the road, finishing her sentence with her lips to his.

“It seems a kind of mixture of both,” he murmured.

“That’s the sixteenth this morning,” said Miss Lestrange, with a little gasp.

“Seventeen—eighteen—nineteen—twenty,” counted Mr Fanshawe, “and one on the eyebrow. Now, let’s see where we are.”

A hundred yards to the right there was a cross-road and a sign-post, which read, taking one set of arms:

[Illustration: Carlow 126 Miles]

Taking the other

[Illustration: ½ way to Dublin]

“Half-way from where?” asked Miss Lestrange.

“I don’t know,” replied Mr Fanshawe.

The wind blew amidst the thistles at the foot of the sign-post in a cynical manner, and the cawing of crows came from the fields.

“I shouldn’t mind,” she said, “only for the row we’re sure to get into; they’ll be waiting luncheon. It’s bad enough our running on and leaving him in the ditch, but that’s nothing to keeping him waiting for luncheon.”

“Why the deuce need they wait?” cried Mr Fanshawe.

“You don’t know what he’s like when he’s kept waiting for his food,” said Miss Lestrange.

“Don’t I!”

“Listen,” she said.

The noise of wheels broke the awful silence around them, and round the bend of the road, coming from the direction indicated as “Carlow 126 miles,” appeared the “tub.”

“That’s our salvation,” said Violet.

“That’s Patsy,” said Mr Fanshawe.

“We’ve been chasing you,” cried Doris, as the “tub” drew up. “We saw you away up there sitting under the hedge. We were on the other road, then, when Patsy saw you get up and come down the hill, he said we’d be sure to find you here.”

“How many miles are we from the house, Patsy?” asked Mr Fanshawe.

“Four, sir.”

“If Miss Lestrange gets into the cart, can you get her there before lunch-time?”

“Aisy, sir. Punch’ll do it in twenty minits.”

Miss Lestrange got into the cart.

“How are you goin’, sir?” asked Patsy.

“I’ll run beside you—on you go.”

At the park gates they stopped.

“You go on,” said Mr Fanshawe, “I’ll turn up in half an hour, or so—better not say you’ve seen me at all, for we’ll get into a row for not having gone back to help my uncle out of the ditch.”

“I won’t say a word,” said Lord Gawdor.

“Nor I,” said Doris.

Patsy said nothing, he only grinned.