Miss Lestrange felt this as keenly as her companion.
“Dicky,” she cried, “I’m all right. Do something. Get the horse up. Is the dogcart quite broken?”
“Quite,” said Mr Fanshawe. He unbuckled the straps of the harness, freed the broken shafts, and got Fly-by-night on her feet with Patsy’s help.
“Patsy,” said Mr Fanshawe, “isn’t there any place round here we could get a cart?”
“Nowhere, sir,” said Patsy; “the nearest farm is five mile away, and the only cart you could get there is a hay-cart.”
Mr Fanshawe climbed on the bank. There was not a habitation to be seen anywhere, fields, fields, and nothing but fields, waste lands, clumps of trees. The high-road to Castle Knock looked like a twisted white ribbon. There was not even a breath of wind, not a sound under the silent moon. He could hear the watch in his pocket ticking. He took it out, it pointed to five minutes to three.
“How far is it to Tullagh, Patsy?” he asked.
“Seven miles and more,” replied Patsy in a heart-broken voice.
“We’re done,” said Mr Fanshawe.
“Look, sir,” said Patsy.