“Worse thon thot,” answered the visitor.
Maggie stiffened up in astonishment.
“Worse than dead?” she gasped. “Why, how can that be possible? What do you mean?”
“He’s married,” said the stranger, in a heart-broken manner.
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE CONSOLER.
And now Maggie did utter a shriek. After swaying a moment, she fell limply into the arms of Patrick McGee, who unhesitatingly supported her.
He was a queer-looking, medium-sized man with a face which, using the hackneyed phrase, “looked like a map of Ireland.” He had bushy eyebrows, a fringe of chin whiskers, sand hair, and a plentiful spattering of freckles. On finding himself clasping the limp form of Maggie, Patrick twisted his mug into a comical expression of dismay so that Tommy Tucker, eagerly peering forth from beneath the couch, was forced to stuff his handkerchief into his mouth to hold back a shout of laughter.
“Howld on, howld on, mavourneen!” spluttered Pat. “Don’t yez be afther floppin’ over loike this, me darlint.”
“Married?” choked Maggie, in the greatest anguish. “Oh, it can’t be true!”
“Av it ain’t true, Oi’m a liar!” said McGee.