"Murtagh and me's the same," she said. "I know what he's going to say." And as Murtagh put out his hand to keep her, Uncle Blair shut the door.
"Please promise first," said Murtagh, "that you won't tell anybody else."
"If it's about the man who made this attempt to-night, Murtagh, I'm afraid I can't promise," replied Mr. Blair. "He must be prosecuted; you yourself will, I fear, be obliged to answer questions in a court of justice."
"But you must promise," said Murtagh, a feverish flush spreading over his cheek. "Make him promise, Nessa. I know I have no right, but it's the only way. It can't possibly be put right if he doesn't."
"Do promise him," said Nessa, looking entreatingly at her uncle, and then glancing anxiously at Murtagh. "Surely you can manage somehow." And most unconstitutionally Mr. Blair did manage.
"It was more my fault than his, because he couldn't have done it if I hadn't got him the gun yesterday," began Murtagh. But he suddenly closed his eyes, unable to proceed. Nessa put a spoonful of brandy between his lips and he revived a little.
"Don't say anything more, my boy," said his uncle, astonishment at Murtagh's statement entirely swallowed up in anxiety; "I understand you don't want him punished."
"I can't tell you now," continued Murtagh, "I feel so funny; but you must help him soon, or he'll do it again. He doesn't understand. He's hiding now. His mother—I—I can't remember; Winnie'll know."
He looked anxiously at Winnie, and his eyes closed again, but he was not unconscious; and Nessa, while she attended to him, said almost impatiently:
"Tell us what it is, Winnie. This excitement is very bad for him."