As the dogcart left the park gates, a remark that the coachman had made to Larry Lyburn that morning recurred to Patsy’s mind.

Larry had drawn the cart out of the coach-house for inspection. Dan, the coachman, had been passing, and Dan, who had the eye of an eagle for faults, had made a remark on the hub of the off wheel.

“There’s a crack in the hub of the off wheel you could put your nose into,” said Dan.

“Crack in your eye,” said Larry; only it wasn’t “eye” he said.

That was all. Dan passed on with the bucket of water he was carrying, and Larry turned the dogcart cushions to air in the bit of winter sun that was peeping over the stable roof.

Patsy, who had overheard the remark and Larry’s reply, scarcely gave the matter a second thought. He no more doubted the opinion of Larry on a hub than a country doctor would doubt the opinion of Sir Frederick Treves on an appendix. That is to say, Larry in his sober senses. The question troubling the mind of Patsy now was whether Larry’s senses were in a sober frame when he flung his diagnosis as to the condition of the off hub at Dan’s head in the form of an unprintable retort. In other words and plainer English, he was wondering at what o’clock had Larry begun at the whisky.

Mr Fanshawe had given Patsy the sovereign on account to hand to Larry the previous night, and now Patsy remembered, with a chill at the heart, having seen little Billy Meehan, an anÆmic sprite of seven, a hanger-on and errand-runner at the Castle Knock inn, passing the kitchen door quite early that morning carrying something wrapped up in a cloth, something that might have been a bottle of spirits.

“O Dicky,” sighed Miss Lestrange, “is it a dream—are we really together? I can’t believe it is true.”

They had passed the sleeping village and the row of poplar trees at its entrance, and the road was ringing to the merry sound of Fly-by-night’s hoofs.

They passed Barn-End, a tiny hamlet, a spore cast-off by Castle Knock; lying two miles and a half towards Tullagh.

“Only a bit over tin miles now, sir,” said Patsy from behind.

“Ten Irish miles,” said Mr Fanshawe, looking at his watch; “and it’s now twenty-five minutes past two; we’ve lots of time. There’s no fear of those two old carriage horses overtaking us, is there, Patsy?”

“No, sir; but if the General’s able to kick sinse into Larry they won’t be far behind. Larry can make ’em go at a gallop, and wanst they’re started they’ll go all day.”

“That’s Castle Connell to the right, sir,” said Patsy after a long interval broken only by the eloquence of Fly-by-night’s hoofs. “Six miles and a quarter, as the crow flies, from Glen Druid. We’re near half-way.”

“Patsy reminds me of those advertisements one sees on the railway lines,” whispered Violet, snuggling up close to Mr Fanshawe. “You know the ones, Beecham’s pills, twenty miles to London.”

“Are you warm, dear?” asked her companion.

“Quite,” she murmured, drawing the mole-skin cloak more tightly around her.

The great idle moon lolling over the hills cast Fly-by-night’s shadow before her. She had warmed to her work now, and was going like a dream under the hand of a master and lover of horses.

“Oh! look at the moon,” sighed Violet, turning for a moment in her seat and looking backwards. “I wish this could last forever.”

“I say,” cried out Dicky, heedless of this wish, which the gods no doubt had overheard, “the cart’s going a bit rocky. Anything wrong with it, do you think, Patsy?”

“I hope not, sir,” said Patsy. “I heard Dan, the coachman say something to Larry about wan of the ‘hubs.’”

“What did he say?” asked Mr Fanshawe.

“He was going across the yard wid a bucket of water, and Larry was clanin’ the cart, and Dan, he says, ‘Larry,’ says he, ‘what are you doin’?’ ‘Clanin’ the cart,’ says Larry. ‘And what are you clanin’ it for?’ he asks. ‘To make it tidy,’ says Larry. ‘Sure, get off to some other job,’ says Dan. ‘The ould cart has to go to the coach-builders for there’s a crack in that “hub” you could stick your nose in; and where’s your eyes? says he; ‘get off and be doin’ your harness, and let the coach-builders clane the trap if it’s worth clanin’, for it’s my opinion, he says, ‘it ought to have been condimned long ago. Lighting fires is all it’s fit for.’”

“Good heavens!” said Mr Fanshawe. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“Sure, I trusted Larry, sir,” said Patsy. “He knows more thin Dan about the traps and the harness any day in the——Holy Mary! there’s the wheel goin’.”

“Hold tight,” cried Mr Fanshawe.

“We’re over,” cried Patsy.

A perfectly superfluous statement delivered from the ditch where he lay with Miss Lestrange’s dressing-bag on his chest. You could have heard the sound of the smash half a mile down the silent road.

“I’m all right,” murmured the girl. “Where am I? O Dicky!”

She was sitting on the road against the hedge bank. The broken-down dogcart with one wheel off lay before her, also Fly-by-night on her side, with Patsy seated on the mare’s head.

“It’s all right,” said Mr Fanshawe, “it’s only a smash up. Nothing matters as long as you aren’t hurt.”

She gazed at the ruins before her, and took in the whole extent of the catastrophe, as did Mr Fanshawe. The position was horrible. Any moment the pursuer might arrive, and then what was to be done? He could not fight his uncle, there was nothing possible except ignominious capitulation. When you are successful in an affair of this kind you are an object of admiration to every one, especially the women. To run away with a woman is the only excuse for a man ever running away; let the woman be subtracted and the excuse is gone, and the man is an object of derision to every one—especially the women.

Miss Lestrange felt this as keenly as her companion.

“Dicky,” she cried, “I’m all right. Do something. Get the horse up. Is the dogcart quite broken?”

“Quite,” said Mr Fanshawe. He unbuckled the straps of the harness, freed the broken shafts, and got Fly-by-night on her feet with Patsy’s help.

“Patsy,” said Mr Fanshawe, “isn’t there any place round here we could get a cart?”

“Nowhere, sir,” said Patsy; “the nearest farm is five mile away, and the only cart you could get there is a hay-cart.”

Mr Fanshawe climbed on the bank. There was not a habitation to be seen anywhere, fields, fields, and nothing but fields, waste lands, clumps of trees. The high-road to Castle Knock looked like a twisted white ribbon. There was not even a breath of wind, not a sound under the silent moon. He could hear the watch in his pocket ticking. He took it out, it pointed to five minutes to three.

“How far is it to Tullagh, Patsy?” he asked.

“Seven miles and more,” replied Patsy in a heart-broken voice.

“We’re done,” said Mr Fanshawe.

“Look, sir,” said Patsy.

He was pointing in the direction of Tullagh. Down the road, towards them, was coming a reeling object, which, in the moonlight, looked now like a dromedary, now like a giant.

“What on earth is it?” cried Miss Lestrange.

“Begob, I don’t know, miss,” replied Patsy, “but whatever it is, it’s drunk.”