“But the game is not played out yet,” said Mr Fanshawe; “we have nearly twenty-four hours before us. I’ll hocus the horses, I’ll get Patsy to take the lynch-pins out of the brougham, I’ll do something—anything—before letting him win like that. The case is desperate. It will be two years before you are of age and your own mistress.”

“Two years, three months and three—no—four days,” said Miss Lestrange.

“He will take you away from here and bottle you up somewhere, or put you in Chancery or something—I know him! He will keep you so close I will never be able to see you or speak to you. He will intercept my letters—we will be able to make no plans. We will be separated two years certain—I may die, you may die—you may get to care for some one else. I have a conviction that if we don’t carry out our plan, and go away with one another day after to-morrow, something will divide us for ever.”

“Dicky!” said the girl.

“Yes?”

“You know what you said about doing something to the horses or the carriage.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t—leave everything to me.”

“What will you do?”

“Never mind; I have made a plan.”

“Tell me it,” said Dicky. “I may be able to improve on it.”

“I will do as Mr Boxall has done.”

“But you haven’t a glass eye.”

“No, but I can catch influenza.”

“Hurrah!” cried Dicky. “I never thought of that—but can you?”

“What?”

“Do the thing properly. What are the symptoms of influenza?”

“You sneeze,” said Violet.

“Can you?”

“No, I’m afraid I can’t; however, we’ll leave that part out. I can say I’ve sneezed.”

“What are the other symptoms?”

“Pains in the bones and headache—Dicky!”

Miss Lestrange suddenly pinched her companion’s arm.

“What?”

“Look!”

A broad, red face was peeping at them from behind a tree-bole.

“Why, I’m blest if it isn’t the burglar chap!” said Mr Fanshawe.

The body belonging to the face came forth from behind the tree-bole, and Mr Murphy, greatly tattered, evidently exhausted, but still grinning, stood before them.

“Faith,” said Mr Murphy, with a tone of happy recognition, “it’s yourself, sor, and glad I am to see you.”

“Can’t return the compliment,” said Mr Fanshawe.

“I’m bone dry,” said Mr Murphy, drawing the back of his hand across his mouth. “Near run off me legs. I’ve left me ould hat in the brambles beyant, and it’s sorry I am to appear before the young lady all rags an’ tatters—whisht!”

Shouts and haloos came from the distance, and the yapping of a dog.

“They’re afther me still!” said Mr Murphy, as though he were speaking to confederates. “Listen to ’um, Mr Fanshawe, sir, you’re a gintleman, you won’t be givin’ me away, will you, if they axes have you seen me?”

“Not I,” said Dicky. “But don’t waste time here talking, hook it as hard as you can; they are coming.”

“Unhappy man!” cried Violet, gazing with dilated eyes at the tattered figure before her.

“Make haste! Dicky, have you no money to give him to help him? Listen—they are coming—don’t wait to be taken—fly!”

“It’s into the tree I’ll be flyin’ if you get off me dure-step, miss,” said the pursued one, buttoning the one button of his coat and preparing to climb. “It’s me house is this ould tree, an’ I’ve lived in her a month wid me ear to the ground for the polis. Aisy does it.”

He got on to the moss-grown root, placed his arms round the bole, and, scrambling like a great tom-cat, in half a moment was gone from sight.

“Come,” said Dicky to the girl, “let us go.”

“Wan minit,” came a voice from the tree.

“Well, what is it?”

“Sure, y’ ain’t goin’ to lave me!” complained the voice. “If they strike the ould tree they’ll sarch it sure. Misther Fanshawe!”

“Yes?”

“For the love of God, sit down an’ talk aisy to the young lady. There’s Con Cogan knows I’ve hid here, and wan or two more—the sight of the young lady will drive thim away as the blessed angels drives the divils.”

“Well, of all the cheek!” said Mr Fanshawe.

“Dicky, dear!” said Violet, laying her hand on his arm. “He’s running away.”

“Well, what of that?”

“Think, if we were running away, if we were chased, and if we found a tree to hide in, think how glad we would be to have some one to—to help us.”

“Listen to her voice!” came a voice from the tree that seemed communing with itself. “Sure, it’s like running wather over pebbles to hear her.”

“It would be unlucky for us,” went on she, “not to help a person who——”

“Yes, it would,” said Dicky. “Sit down. All right—we’ll do what we can for you.”

“God in hivin bless you; may God in hivin rain His blessin’s on you; may the saints make your bed, and the howly angels smooth your pillas; may the——”

“Shut up!” said Mr Fanshawe.

“Listen!” said Violet.

Voices were audible in the wood close by.

“Swear be all’s blew you saw me runnin’ towards Castle Knock,” came the voice, muted and confidential.

“Hold your beastly tongue,” replied Mr Fanshawe, irritated at the way in which the rascal had made him a tool to assist his flight, and the familiar tone of his voice.

“Here they are,” said Violet.

A spot of dingy scarlet showed through the trees, and next moment Billy Croom, followed by Con Cogan, broke into the glade.

“That’s the tree!” cried Con. “Musha! but who’s them?”

When the rabble had run Mr Murphy to earth, or rather into the wood, they paused. They did not mind pursuing him across the open a hundred strong. Pursuing him through the wood was quite a different matter, for pursuit through a wood means breaking up into small parties, and there was not a man amongst the lot who would have tackled Mr Murphy, even with the assistance of a couple of others.

“Lave him be!” cried the populace. “Sure, you might as well hunt for a needle in the siven acres. More’s the pity, with the reward out aginst him, and all.”

“What’s the reward?” asked Billy Croom.

“A hundred pound.”^[3]

“A hundred pound, and him in the wood!”

“Ay, a hundred pound.”

“Sure, I’d chase a hundred divils through a hundred woods for that,” said Billy Croom, slipping off his horse. “Here, Bob Mahony, take a hoult of the reins.”

“He’ll murther you!” cried the populace.

“Will he, begob?” said the whip, his lean, dark, devilish face lighting up with battle.

“Mr Croom!” came a voice. It was the voice of Con Cogan, who, assured that the police were absent, had been hanging round the tail of the proceedings like a carrion crow.

“What is it?” asked Croom.

“I can tell yiz where you’ll find ’um. What will yiz give me?”

“I’ll give you a tin poun’ note out of the hundred,” replied the huntsman, approaching close to Con.

“Then you can hand it over, for he’s in the ould oak tree widout a top to it.”

“Where’s that?”

“Sure, where would it be, but in the wood?”

The populace tittered. They thought Con was “having” the whip, otherwise such base treachery would have condemned Mr Cogan to a speedy and literal downfall.

“What part of the wood?” demanded the whip.

“Two hundred yards, maybe, to the lift of the drive, before you rache the turnin’ to the Druids’ Althar.”

“He’s gave Paddy away!” cried the onlookers, who perceived from the exact directions that there was no joking in the matter. “He’s bethrayed him—oh, the baste!”

“Lave him to me,” said Croom, as disgusted as the rest, but still determined to use Mr Cogan.

“Now, then, you holy scarecrow, lay on to the sint, into the wood wid you before me.”

They were a picture. The lean, dark-faced whip all fight and energy; Con, with his brigand’s appearance, and his face of an ideal stage-robber, wilting before the other.

“Lay on!” cried the huntsman.

“Let up!” cried Con. “Lave me be—who are you afther talking to? Help! Mary! Moses!”

The thong of the whip curled round his legs. Then, whip in one hand and grasping the collar of Con’s old coat in the other, Croom ran the villain in amidst the trees, and they were lost to sight.

The populace danced.

“On you go before me,” said Croom, releasing the collar. “Play me crucked, and I’ll brain yiz with the butt-end of me whip.”

“I’ll go quiet,” replied the other. “But, sure, it’s the fear of Paddy Murphy that’s before me.”

“Faith, it’s the fear of Billy Croom that’s behind yiz. On you go. Which way, now?”

“To the lift.”

Con led fair and straight, and in ten minutes they had reached the little path that led to the Druids’ Altar.

“To the lift again,” said Con. “There’s the ould tree—musha, but who’s them!”

“Sit quiet,” said Mr Fanshawe to Violet; “we may be able to bluff them without telling lies.”

Con, seeing Mr Fanshawe and knowing the strength of Croom, began to lose fear of Paddy Murphy, and did not bolt away as he might otherwise have done, but waited—for his own undoing—to see the sport.

Croom touched his hat to Mr Fanshawe’s scarlet coat.

“Beg pardon, sir,” said he, “but have you seen a sight of that chap we was chasin’?”

“I have,” replied Mr Fanshawe. “What do you want with him?”

“Faith,” said Croom, “I want to kitch him.”

“And what do you want to catch him for?” asked Mr Fanshawe.

“You must ax the polis that,” replied the huntsman. “They can bile him, for all I care, all I wants is to kitch him, and if you axes me why, it’s because there’s a hundred pounds reward aginst him, and I’ve a wife and childer.”

“Well, you can go home to your wife and childer, and tell them you’ve lost a hundred pounds to-day, for you’re not going to catch him.”

A blaze came into the eyes of Billy Croom and was smothered.

“I’m not wishful to be disrespectful, sir,” said Billy, “I’m axing you have you seen him?”

“I told you before, I have.”

“And where was that?”

“Here.”

“Con Cogan!” said the whip.

“Yes,” replied Con.

“Is this the tree or not.”

“It is.”

“Well, then, sir,” said Billy, “I’m not wishin’ to be disrespectful, but is the chap in the ould tree behind you, or is he not?”

“He is,” replied Mr Fanshawe.

“That’s all right,” said the whip, buttoning his coat and approaching the tree. “It’s worse than tacklin’ a badger in a barrel, but I’ll do it.”

“Stop,” said Mr Fanshawe.

“Who’s goin’ to stop me?” enquired Billy, the blaze lighting up again in his eyes.

“I am.”

“For sure?” said Billy.

“Yes, for sure, he’s under my protection—do you want him?”

“I’m goin’ to have him.”

“I say, do you want him?” repeated Mr Fanshawe, rising to his feet.

“O’ course I want him.”

“Then, you’ll have to fight me for him.”

“O Dicky!” murmured Violet.

“It’s a question of honour,” said Mr Fanshawe. “I don’t know why I should fight this scoundrel’s battles, but he has placed himself under my protection, and I’m not going to give him up.” Then, in a lower voice: “You wouldn’t have it otherwise?”

“No,” said Violet, shivering; “but tell me before you begin, and I’ll shut my eyes, and—stop my ears.”

“Misther Fanshawe.”

The voice came from above. Dicky looked up. Mr Murphy had scrambled up, and was leaning over the tree-top rim.

“Misther Fanshawe, there’s no call for fightin’. I’ll come down and settle me account peaceful wid Billy Croom. I’ll go wid him quiet, for I’m sure to be cocht anyhow, and he may as well have the hundred pound as another. Aisy, now, Mr Fanshawe, and listen to me. I’ll go wid Billy on one condijion.”

“What’s that?” asked Mr Fanshawe, glad to be done with the business.

“That you take hould of Con Cogan’s arm over there, and hould him till I ax you to loose him, for I’m powerful anxious to say a word to him before I goes to prizon.”

“Right!” said Dicky, stepping over to where Con stood and taking hold of his arm.

“I ax you, sir,” said Mr Murphy, “not to loose him till I say when.”

“Right!” said Mr Fanshawe.

“Now,” said Mr Murphy, whipping a frightful-looking old horse pistol into view and levelling it at the head of Billy Croom, who stood right at the bottom of the tree, “now that all’s settled. I’m going to have a word wid me friend, Billy. Move the hundredth part of an inch, y’ widge-faced houn’, and your brains go on the grass. Misther Fanshawe, will yiz ax the young lady to go away beyant and shut her eyes and ears?”

“Go quick!” cried Dicky, and he had not to repeat his words. “Hi, you scoundrel, stop it! You’re not going to shoot the man.”

“Mr Fanshawe,” went on the man in possession of affairs, “you’ve give your word—this is betune Billy and me, man to man. Billy Croom, have I thrumped your ace, or have I not?”

Billy was a very brave man, but he knew the infernal devil in the tree, and his utter recklessness when moved by whisky or rage.

“You have,” said Billy.

“You came afther me for gowld, and I’m goin’ to give yiz lead,” said Mr Murphy, “if yiz as much as blinks wan eye before I lays down me conditions of war. They’ll be hard, Billy Croom, but, begob! they’ll be better than hell.”

Dicky, holding Con by the sleeve, looked on fascinated. Intuition told him that Murphy would kill the man under him, if the man under him moved so much as a finger, for there was that in Murphy’s face which was beyond the earth.

“What’s you afther?” asked Croom, whose breath was coming hard.

“Strip!” said the other—“all but your britches and brogues; I’ll lave you those for dacency sake.”

“I’ll be——if I do!” said Croom.

“I’ve said it wanst, I’ll say it twice, and if I say it three times, I’ll shut—strip!”

Croom stripped.

“Shut your eyes,” cried Dicky, and a voice came from the wood:

“They’re shut.”

“Now,” said Mr Murphy to the half-naked figure before him, “I’ll give yiz a chanst. I’m goin’ to count five; at the fifth sthroke I’ll fire if there’s a speck of yiz to be seen. Use your legs—Wan—two—three—four——Mr Fanshawe, sir!”

“Yes?”

“Did yiz happen to see a party be the name of Billy Croom around here anywhere in the neebourhood to-day?”

“I did,” said Mr Fanshawe, “but he seems to have gone.”

“Faith,” said Mr Murphy, putting his leg over the edge of his fortress and scrambling down, “he’s left his clothes behint him.” He approached Mr Fanshawe and the trembling Con. “There’s a lady in the wood, sir, and maybe you’ll be escorthin’ her home. Good-mornin’, Con Cogan, I have a word to say with you.”

“Don’t lave me with him, sir,” implored Con, “or it’s me brains he’ll be blowin’ out.”

“Don’t you be afear’d, sir,” said Paddy; “sure, he hasn’t any brains to blow. I’m not goin’ to hurt a feather of him.”

“Well, I can’t stay here all day,” said Mr Fanshawe; “you must settle your differences between you. What are you going to do? The police will have you, sure. Why don’t you get out of the country?”

“Sure, where could I go?” said Mr Murphy.

“Go to America. Here’s a couple of sovereigns for you; and, see here, if you’ll make up your mind to cut the country I’ll help. Apply to me at No. 10A Merrion Square, Dublin, and I’ll pay your passage, and give you a fiver to start you.”

“Sure, what could I do in Amerika?” said Mr Murphy, pocketing the coins without a word of thanks.

“Do? Why, go on the stock exchange—no, go into politics, that’s your true position in life. You waste your time here. Well, I’m off—good-day.”

“Good-day to yiz,” replied the other. “Sure, it’s you I’d like to have at me elbow in a row.”

“Oh, I think you’re able to look after yourself;” said Mr Fanshawe, as he departed.

“I’m not a chicken,” replied the other. “Good-day to yiz. Come, Con, we’ve words to say to wan another.”

“O Dicky,” said Violet, when—having found each other by hallooing—they pressed their lips together, “I’m so frightened. Has he shot him?”

“No,” replied Mr Fanshawe, chuckling, “but he’s done nearly as bad. Come on, and let’s find the road; it’s half-past twelve, and that confounded luncheon will be kept waiting for us again.”