Mr Murphy drew a clasp-knife from his pocket, opened it, tried the point on his thumb to see if it were sharp, then, holding Patsy down with one big hand on his chest, he approached the point of the knife to his throat.
“Don’t do it, Paddy!” cried Con, pretending to be alarmed.
“I’ve made up me mind,” said Mr Murphy, “I’ve made up me mind to see the colour of his blood, there’s no use in tryin’ to stop me. I’ve made up me mind to see the colour of his blood.”
At this awful threat Patsy made sure that his last moment had come. He was too frightened to speak or cry out, he just lay staring at the broad, red face of his executioner, or as much as he could see of it, for Mr Murphy’s back was half turned on the fire.
“Tell him, Patsy,” implored Con, “or he’ll have your life.”
Patsy felt the point of the knife tickling his throat.
“It’s the jewels!” shrieked Patsy.
“Which jewels?” asked Mr Murphy. “Quick now, or the knife goes into you.”
“The jewels ould Lady Molyneux’s bringin’ with her worth hundredths of thousands of pounds.”
“Who told you of them?” went on Mr Murphy.