“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.”
“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——”
“I don’t know why Boxall should have reminded me, but—I say, you’ll promise not to split if I tell you something?”
“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 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:
“Half-way from where?” asked Miss Lestrange.
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.”