“By a Bar! What does it mean?”
The other shook his head. “It was sent to you by one who wished it to be known by us that he is your friend, even though a Bar.”
Just then Watson noted something sticking out of the edge of one of the clover leaves. He pulled it out. It was a piece of paper. On it were scrawled words IN ENGLISH.
The writing was pencil script, done in a poor hand and ill-spelled, but still English. Chick read:
“Be of good cheer; there ain't a one in this world that can top a lad from Frisco. And it's Pat MacPherson that says it. Yer the finest laddie that ever got beyond the old Witch of Endor. You and me, if we hold on, is just about goin' to play hell with the haythen. Hold on and fight like the divil! Remember that Pat is with ye!
“We're both spooks.
“PAT MACPHERSON”
Said Watson: “Who gave you this? Did you see the man?”
“It was sent up my lord. The man was a high Bar in the Senestro's guard.”
Watson could not understand this. Was it possible that there were others in this mysterious region besides himself? At any rate, he wasn't wholly alone. He felt that he could count upon the Irishman—or was this fellow Scotch? Anyhow, such a man would find the quick means of wit at a crucial moment.