“Well, by the blessid St. Patrick!” ejaculated the amazed Connell, but he was speedily checked with a peremptory “Silence!” while the sapient magistrate proceeded:—
“We have even stronger proofs. Sergeant, did you find these documents?”
“Yes, your washup.”
“The first is a drawing, sketch, or plan. Where did you find that?”
“Under one of the children’s heads, your washup.”
“Evidently placed there for concealment. The second is a letter—a very important letter—from New York. Where did you discover that?”
“On the chimney-piece, your washup.”
“Ha! It was left there, no doubt, in the hope that you would not dream of looking for dangerous documents in such an exposed position. Now, prisoner, what is this drawing?”
“Well, plaze your majesty, its a pictur’ that Terry, the child, was thryin’ to mek av the goat, the craytur, and the poor gossoon was so proud av it he tuk it to bed with him.”
“A goat! Gracious heavens! Christopher Connell, you are trifling with the court. That sketch, sir, I take to be a military map of Ireland, with the rivers and boundaries left out to mislead us. But learn that the eye of the law can discern everything, and it can penetrate through that goat’s mask and see the grim secret behind!”