Meanwhile at the front of the house things had been happening. Larry and a subordinate stable helper had brought round Mr Fanshawe’s horse, and the horses for General Grampound and Miss Lestrange.

“I must speak to you alone,” said Dicky, as he helped the girl into her saddle—“not a word here.—Row? You saw us at breakfast—he has sworn not to speak to me again—it’s over that business last night. Hush, here he is.”

He swung into his own saddle as his uncle came down the steps, and mounted the elephantine grey which Larry Lyburn was holding for him.

It was at this moment that a ragged individual, of the type which is all eyes for disaster, and all ears for bad news, and all tongue for telling it, yelled out:

“Here’s wan of the whips riding hell for leather. Musha! but somethin’ must a’ happened to the houn’s!”

Right across the park he was coming, a dingy scarlet figure on a big brown horse.

“It’s Billy Croom, the second whip!” cried Mr Mahony, who was standing up in his cart. “Will yiz look at the face of him, white as chalk!”

The huntsman took the sunk fence dividing the great lawn from the grasslands, and, full gallop, came, scattering the crowd to right and to left till ten paces from where General Grampound, Dicky Fanshawe and Miss Lestrange were grouped he reined in, bringing the big brown mare on her haunches.

“No mate!” cried Billy. “Mr O’Farrell’s tumbled down the stairs and killed hisself—Musha! don’t all be axin’ me at once—He’s fell from the first flure down to the haal—I left the docther settin’ his arum—an’ he won’t be in the saddle agin for a month. ‘Into the saddle wid you, Billy,’ says Mrs O’Farrell, and she near crazy, ‘and aff you go wid my respects and give ’m the news.’ Stan’ clear and don’t be crowdin’ me—mind wid that stick, and don’t be proddin’ it into the mare, or it’s stars she’ll be kickin’ out of you—she ain’t an umbrilla stand. What was you afther sayin’, sir?”

“I am asking you, is Mr O’Farrell dead or not?” said General Grampound, who had been vainly endeavouring to make his voice heard in the hubbub.

“No, sir; he’s only bruck his arum.”

“Then what the deuce do you mean by saying he had killed himself?”

“Who’d killed hisself?” asked Billy, unaccustomed to be taken literally, and nettled at the tone of the questioner.

“Mr O’Farrell—are you deaf?”

“Who’s you talkin’ to?” replied the whip, a man with one of those long, dark, narrow, devilish, fighting faces one meets with sometimes amidst the Irish sporting classes.

Before the General could reply—and well for him, perhaps—at this moment up went the cry from the stable-yard:

“Paddy’s out!”

“Paddy’s out!” yelled the throng, forgetting the disputants and surging towards the stable side of the house. “Brayvo, Paddy! Where is he? Afther him, and let’s chase him! Boys! boys! this’ll be the fun an’ all. Set the houn’s afther him—there ain’t no houn’s—afther him on fut! Crack him on the head if yiz catch him. No quarther, no quarther!—sure, he’s biled babies alive, the blackguyard! There he is, runnin’. Shan’s cotched him! No, he ain’t—he’s free. Afther him, afther him!”

A furious crowd surrounded the stable entrance, from which broke the figure of a man running.

The extraordinary fact stands, take it how you will, that the crowd who had sympathised and assisted in Mr Murphy’s escape were now, immediately on his enlargement, all against him and eager to catch him. The spirit of pity had vanished with the breaking of the bars, the spirits of pursuit and revenge broke loose, and who knows what might have happened but for Billy Croom, the whip, who, galloping in a semi-circle, faced and herded back the pursuing crowd with his devilish expression and long whip.

“Fair play!” shouted Billy, letting into the would-be hunters with his whip. “Give him two minits’ law and let him have a run for his money. Back you get, y’ divils, give him till he’s over the sunk fence—wait me word! There, he’s over! Tally ho! hark forrard!”

“Look!” cried Violet, “they are chasing him.”

“Now’s our time,” said Dicky. “Uncle’s away over there to the left—let’s pretend to follow the chase; leave everything to me. Can you take the sunk fence?”

“Rather!” said she.

The hunted one had got a good start; he had left the sunk fence far behind him, and was making for the woods. Behind him, out-streaming like the tail of a fan-tail comet, came the populace.

Billy Croom, who could have ridden the quarry down easily, was far too good a sportsman for that. He was riding at a trot, and from a distance you could see that he was treating the pursuers after the fashion of a pack of hounds—that is to say, with encouragement of voice and whip, especially the latter.

He was having more fun out of the business than any one else. The General riding near Billy seemed to be doing a great deal of shouting.

“To the right now!” said Dicky, when they had cleared the fence. “They are all on ahead, and we can cut straight across to the woods.”

Mr Murphy was also making for the woods but far lower down, and he “went to earth,” to judge by the roar of the pursuing pack, just as the lovers reached the shelter of the trees.

“Let’s get off and leave the horses here,” said Dicky. “I must have a good long talk to you. Patsy ought to be somewhere near. I told him this morning to watch out for us, and keep close to us. I told him we’d most likely take shelter in these trees.”

“Listen!” said Violet.

Patsy that morning, with rare fidelity and close attention to business, had forsaken his duties and all delights, and posted himself in the branches of a beech tree. From this vantage he could see the “meet.” He saw Billy Croom riding furiously up and delivering his message. He saw the pursuit of Mr Murphy, he saw Violet and Dicky Fanshawe’s manoeuvre.

Directly they turned beyond the sunk fence and rode towards the wood, he saw what they were after, marked their direction, came down the beech tree with the rapidity of a monkey and made through the wood to meet them.

“Oh! there you are,” said Mr Fanshawe. “Take the horses, Patsy, and lead them back to the stable. We will return on foot.”

“Yes, sir,” said Patsy, taking the bridles.

“This way,” said Dicky, leading Violet, who was holding her short habit in one hand. He led her amidst the trees which were sparsely set, till, on looking round, nothing was to be seen but the tree-boles, the withered fern under foot and above, through the tracery of the branches, the dull December day. Here Mr Fanshawe struck his head in a dramatic fashion. “I have been half-mad all the morning to have a word with you. Violet, it’s all up.”

“What?” asked Violet, half-alarmed at the distraction visible in her companion.

“Everything, the whole game. He and you are going away to-morrow morning.”

“Dicky! what on earth do you mean?”

“I’ll tell you. But first tell me, what did you hear last night?”

“I lay awake waiting, that is to say, I didn’t go to bed; just lay down with my clothes on. I heard the clock strike twelve; then a long time passed, and then,” said Violet, “I heard a most awful yell.”

“That was when we caught him. Go on.”

“It went on to squeals just like a pig. I heard doors banging, and his voice and his language, and other voices, then everything was quiet. Then I lay listening to Lady Seagrave snoring. She is so deaf she heard nothing, and she sleeps in the next room. Then I heard your knock, I said ‘Yes,’ and then I heard——”

“Yes, go on.”

“Your dear voice,” said Violet, nestling her cheek against his shoulder.

Mr Fanshawe gulped, and pressed her to him.

“Then,” said Violet, “you asked me to open the door and say good-night, and I said ‘No,’ and you said ‘Yes,’ and then I opened it. Then I said good-night and shut my door, and—that’s all.”

Mr Fanshawe groaned.

“I wish it were,” he said.

“How?”

“He saw us.”

“When?”

“When I—Violet, dear—kissed you.”

Her face flushed scarlet.

“I was coming down the passage,” went on Mr Fanshawe, “going to my room, after leaving you, when some one grasped me by the arm. It was uncle. He had been standing in the dark at his door, and he saw everything, for, you remember, I had a lighted candle in my hand.”

“Go on,” said Violet.

“He drew me into his room——”

“Tell me exactly what he said.”

“I never swear before ladies,” said Mr Fanshawe, with a miserable attempt at jocularity, “but what he said, as far as I remember, was something like this: ‘Now, sir—now, sir—now, sir—now, sir—what the blank—what the blank—what the blank do you mean, sir? What the blank do you mean, you hound?’”

“He called you a hound?”

“He called me a hound.”

“But this is serious, Dicky.”

“Very especially for me, as I could not strike him.”

“What did you say?”

“I said, I believe, ‘Thank you, sir.’ It wasn’t a very brilliant observation, under the circumstances.”

Violet put her hands round his neck, drew his face down and kissed it.

“I love you for having said it,” said she.

“That makes up. But I felt pretty bad, never felt worse. I declare to heaven,” suddenly broke out Mr Fanshawe, “I can’t understand human nature. Here’s a man as brave as they make them, a D.S.O., and all that, with the heart of a bitter old maid——”

“Go on,” said Violet. “What happened then?”

“He said things about you, and—I ran away.”

“Ran away?”

“You see, if I had stayed I must have knocked him down. I told him he was a liar before I left him, though; other things, too, that I want to forget——”

Violet sighed one of those deep sighs that speak not of sorrow or lackadaisical affectation. Her eyes were sparkling.

“If I could be glad about anything so horrible,” she said, “I would be glad he spoke like that about me, for now I don’t care if I do——”

“What?”

“Run away with you.”

Mr Fanshawe again pressed her close to him. They were walking, sauntering, all this time through the wood in any direction Fate might lead them. He sighed.

“That’s the rub,” said he.

“How?”

“I will tell you. Patsy comes in here. This morning at seven, General Grampound, my revered uncle, rang his bell. Patsy answered it. Patsy was commissioned to tell a maid to tell Lady Seagrave that General Grampound requested an interview with her ‘at once’ on business of the gravest importance. Lady Seagrave replied that she would see him at eight o’clock in her boudoir.

“A few minutes after eight the boudoir bell rang, and Patsy, who scented mischief, answered it. He found the General and the lady together, but unable to communicate, as the lady in her hurry had left her ear-trumpet on her dressing-room table. Patsy was sent to fetch it.”

Mr Fanshawe paused, and, despite his dejection, chuckled.

“Patsy,” he went on, “does not love my uncle. Patsy, as far as I can understand his character, is a compound of Machiavelli, Bismarck, Puck, and one of Shakespeare’s fools all compressed into a page-boy in buttons. Patsy saw the ear-trumpet on the table, and by the trumpet a bottle of eau de Cologne. The combination would have meant nothing to an ordinary person, but in Patsy’s mind it suggested the idea of playing the ‘ould Gineral a trick.’”

“Go on,” said Violet interestedly.

“He took the cork from the eau de Cologne bottle and popped it into the ear-trumpet.”

“Oh, bravo, Patsy!” cried Miss Lestrange. “Go on, go on!”

“Not only did he pop it in, but he rammed it tight, with a long button-hook. Then he brought the ear-trumpet down, handed it to Lady Seagrave, and shut the door. Then he listened.”

“What did he hear?”

“As far as I can gather, it was like listening to a scene in a French farce. You know, the old girl hates to be thought deaf, and my uncle hates to be thought stupid. Strange, that people with such obvious defects should try to hide them. The General began to explain himself; she requested him to speak louder. He bellowed, and she asked him was he deaf. They seemed to have insulted one another for a quarter of an hour or so without getting any ‘forrader’; at all events, he was unable to tell her what he wanted to tell her, about us last night.”

“Thank heaven!” said Violet. “Not that I would care a button about any one knowing, but, O Dicky, women feel about things differently to men, and you can’t think the—the—deep satisfaction that eau de Cologne cork has given to my mind. She is such a meddler, such a fusser, and she has such notions of propriety. You can’t understand an old lady of that sort, because you are not a woman. If she had heard what he said, she would have made you go off at once—I know her.”

“Why,” cried Dicky, “that was just what he was trying to ask her to do! Patsy told me he began by asking her to send me off at once, as I was conducting myself in an ungentlemanly manner, and ruining your prospects of marriage——”

“We had two enemies to our happiness,” said Violet, “Patsy has made one confound the other. What did she say to all that?”

“She said, ‘Speak louder,’” replied Mr Fanshawe with a grim chuckle.

“I can’t help thinking that there is a Providence at work,” said Miss Lestrange devoutly—“this happening and Mr Boxall getting influenza. She was putting him into my pocket at every opportunity. She had made up a party for to-day in a closed carriage, to go to Tullagh. She, and I, and He, and Lady Molyneux—ugh!—but now this blessed influenza.”

“Don’t!” said Dicky, suddenly catching hold of a tree and doubling himself up in convulsions of merriment. “This is too much—it’s not influenza.”

“What is it, Dicky?”

“I can’t tell—see here, Violet——It’s a sneaky thing to say things about another man—I must tell, though. Boxall isn’t in bed because of the influenza.”

“What, then?”

“Patsy collared his eye.”

“His what?”

“His artificial one. It popped out of his head when that sweep chap hit him. Patsy saw it on the road, and put it in his pocket.”

“Oh!” said Miss Lestrange.

“He’s sent a telegram for another one,” went on Mr Fanshawe; “Cupid’s messenger, you know—ha! ha! ha!”

Miss Lestrange did not go into the same convulsions of merriment. To a girl every man who presents himself in the guise of a suitor, whether he is acceptable or wildly impossible, is a sort of trinket, a personal possession—at the lowest, a scalp. A woman, whatever she may pretend, feels a kindly interest at heart for any man who admires and loses his heart to her.

Had Mr Mahony, soot bags and all, fallen honestly and wildly in love with Miss Lestrange, Miss Lestrange, while scouting and loathing and closing the doors against her dusky suitor, would still have felt for him an interest; and, had he broken his leg, the news would have been of more moment to her than the news of a similar accident befalling Mr Mullins or Billy the Buck, or any other male biped of the same species.

“Patsy,” said Miss Lestrange, “seems to have had a lot to do with our affairs; is it Fate or just—Patsy?”

“It’s accident,” replied Dicky, whom a grave thought had suddenly sobered. “Ireland is an accident factory; these things could never happen in England. An Irishman creates an accident and then somehow makes events from it. Patsy doesn’t do things of a set purpose, but he takes hold of opportunity, and he can make more of an accident than most people. But the thing that is bothering me is this. Though Patsy, by means of an eau de Cologne cork, has stopped me from being summarily expelled, all the Patsys and all the eau de Cologne corks in the world won’t stop uncle from leaving and taking you away with him. He’s going to-morrow by the 8.15 from Tullagh station.”

“How do you know?” asked Violet. “He has not said a word to me.”

“No, I don’t suppose he will till this evening; all the same, he is going. The last words he said in that fantastic interview with the old woman were, that he would leave the house to-day, only that he was too late to catch the 8.15, but that he’d go to-morrow; and he has given orders for the cart for the luggage, and the brougham to take you to the station.”

“This is dreadful,” said the girl. “Dicky, it was the day after to-morrow——”

“Yes; at two in the morning we were to start.”

They had wandered far by this. They had crossed the drive and entered the woods on the other side, walking in the direction of the Druids’ Altar. Breaking into a little glade they found themselves before the ruin of a tree, the bole of a great oak, broken off some ten feet from the ground; it was the same oak in which Mr Murphy had been hiding on the day we first made his acquaintance.

“Let us sit down for a minute and think,” said the girl, pointing to the moss-grown roots of the old tree.