“Which is the way to the ‘scrubbery,’ Patsy?” said he. “I want to smoke a cigar.”
“This way, sir,” said Patsy, leading the way down a passage, through a swing-door, down another passage, to a door that was bolted and which he opened.
“Leave the door open,” said Mr Fanshawe. “I will shut it when I come in.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Patsy. “Sure, it’s a fine night for a smoke under the stars. Mr Fanshawe, sir!”
“Yes?”
“The childer are in the nursery, sir,” said Patsy in a muted voice, as though he were imparting some State secret.
“Oh, they are, are they?” said Mr Fanshawe, rather surprised at the mysterious tone of the communication. “And what are they doing—no mischief, I hope?”
“The young lady is wid them,” said Patsy. “There’s no wan else up there, but, sure, they’re safe enough wid her.”
There was the faintest suspicion of jocularity in Patsy’s tone, so faint as to be almost indiscernible. Still it was there, and as there was nothing jocular in the remark of which the tone was, so to speak, the envelope, it was more particularly noticeable.
“Patsy!” said Mr Fanshawe, who had taken a few steps from the door, turning and trying to make out in the surrounding darkness the small figure of his informant.