“Boom—Boom.” The great clock in the turret was striking two.
“I’m not frightened,” gasped the girl, as Dicky, forgetting the children and Patsy, clasped her in his arms, “I’m only nervous.”
“Now, then, Patsy,” whispered Mr Fanshawe, “lead the way with the candle, we have no time to lose.”
Patsy led the way down the corridor to the kitchen.
“I’ve iled them,” said Patsy with a grin as he slid the bolts back silently of the kitchen door. “Howld the candle over me shoulder, Misther Fanshawe, that I may see where Larry is.”
Mr Fanshawe did as he was asked. Patsy turned the key in the lock and opened the door.
“O Glory be to God!” said Patsy.
It did not require a candle to light the picture, the full moon did it.
In the middle of the yard, which was deeply strawed, stood the great old family coach in which Lady Seagrave took her airings, harnessed to it were the two stout white coach horses, one of which, hearing the faint sound of the opening door, turned its fiddle-shaped head and surveyed the newcomers with a flickering, subdued whinny.
On the straw, face down, arms spread out, and the moonlight exhibiting the two tarnished buttons on the back of the old livery coat he had slipped on, lay Larry.