"A murder!" echoed Helen, looking with startled eyes at the slouching figure that was carrying off her graceful cousin.
"Yes. You must know," continued Katie, now dropping into a tone of glib narration, "that Crowmore belonged to papa's uncle, an old miser, who lived in Dublin and let the house, and garden, and a few acres, to a man of the name of Dillon. The rest of the land was managed by the old steward, who was a first-rate farmer, and as honest as the sun. But to return to Dillon. He had a good-for-nothing son, called John, who never did anything but loaf and poach. In those days Andy was a handy-man, or boy, about the yard, and he and this John were always quarrelling. One day John beat him cruelly, and Andy was heard to declare that he would certainly have his life! Anyway, a short time afterwards, Dillon was found shot dead up at the black gate, between this and Ballyredmond, and Andy was taken up and lodged in jail. However, he was soon discharged, as it was proved at the inquest that Dillon's gun must have gone off accidentally, though some people say it did not to this day.—But some people will say anything.—At any rate, the whole affair gave Andy such a terrible fright, that he has never been the same since."
"And how is he affected?"
"Chiefly by the sight of a policeman—a 'peeler,' as he calls him. At the first glimpse, he takes to his heels and runs for his life. He never ventures beyond the cross-roads, and would not go within a mile of the black gate, by day or night, for millions; indeed, no one goes round that way after sundown," she added impressively.
"And pray why not?"
"Because they say John Dillon walks."
"Walks?" echoed Helen, with a look of puzzled curiosity.
"Haunts it, then. Dozens have seen him leaning over the gate, just about dusk, and it is quite certain that he shoots the coverts as regularly as ever he did; I've often heard the shots myself."
"Poachers, my dear simple little Katie."
"Poachers, real poachers, would not venture on the Crowmore or Ballyredmond estates for all the game in Ireland! I'll tell you something more extraordinary. Dillon had a brace of splendid red setters. I remember them when we first came, very old, and nearly blind. They say for a fact, that when these dogs would be lying by the kitchen fire at night, they would suddenly hear Dillon's whistle, and jump up and rush to the door, and whine and scratch until they were let out; and then they would be away for hours, and come home all muddy, and tired, and draggled, as if they had been working hard. Several people have told me they have seen this themselves."