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“There’ll be little sleep for this house to-night,” resumed the old gentleman after a pause. “I’m goin’ to look round and see if the doors are locked, an’ then take a look at Polly. An’, Peter.”

“Sir!”

“The first light in the mornin’–it’s only a few hours off,” he added, with a glance at his watch –“you run over to the police station, and give notice of what’s happened.”

“I will, yer honour.”

“Come upstairs with me, boys. I want to talk with you. Good-night, Mr. Hayes. This has been a blackguard business, but there’s no reason you should lose your rest for it.”

Mr. Connolly left the room, resting his arms on the shoulders of his two sons. Harold glanced at the motionless figure of the murdered man, and followed. He did not seek his bedroom, however; he knew it would be idle to think of sleep. He entered the smoking-room, lit a cigar, and threw himself into a chair to wait for morning.

All his ideas as to the Irish question had been changing insensibly during his visit to Lisnahoe. This night’s work had revolutionised them. He saw the agrarian feud–not as he had been wont to read of it, glozed over by the New York papers. He saw it as it was–in all its naked, brutal horror.

He had observed that there had been no attempt on the Connollys to appeal to neighbours for sympathy in this time of trouble, and he had asked Jack the reason. Jack’s answer had been brief and pregnant.

“Where’s the good? We’re boycotted.”

And that dead man lying on the table outside was only an example of boycotting carried to its logical conclusion.

The sound of a door closing softly aroused Harold from his reverie. A little postern leading from the servants’ quarters opened close to the smoking-room window. Harold looked out, and, as the night had grown clearer, he distinctly saw old Pete Dwyer making his way with elaborate caution down the shrubery path.

“Going to the police station, I suppose,” mused Hayes. “Well, he has started betimes.”

Then he resumed his seat and thought of Polly.

What a shock for her, poor girl, to leave a happy home with her heart full of innocent mirth, only to encounter murder lurking red-handed at the very threshold!

“I wish I had spoken to her to-day,” he muttered. “Goodness alone knows when I shall find a chance now. I wonder how she is?”

He realised that he could see nothing of her till breakfast time at any rate–if, indeed, she would be strong enough to appear at that meal. He had been sitting in the dark; he now threw aside his cigar, and, drawing his chair closer to the window, set himself resolutely to watch for the dawn and solace his vigil with dreams of Polly.

A raw, chill air blew into the room. He noticed that a pane of glass was broken. One of the children had thrown a ball through it a few days before, and in the present situation of the Connolly household a glazier was an unattainable luxury.

Harold rose with the intention of moving his chair out of the draught, but as he did so the sound of whispered words, seemingly at his very ear, made him pause. The voices came from the shrubbery below the window, and in one of them he recognised the unmistakable brogue of old Peter Dwyer.

Had the man been to the police station and returned with the constables so quickly? This was Harold’s first thought, but he dismissed it as soon as formed. Peter had been barely half an hour absent, and the station was several miles off. Where had he been, then, and with whom was he conversing? Harold bent his head close to the broken pane and listened.

“Are ye sure sartin that the young woman seen us?” inquired a rough voice–not Peter’s–“because this is goin’ to be an ugly job, an’ there’s no call for us to tackle it widout needcessity?”