"The question now arises," said Carnes, dropping his Hibernianisms, and taking them up again as his enthusiasm waxed or waned. "The question is this: What's in our hand? What do wee's know? What do wee's surmise, and what have wee's got till find out?"
"Very comprehensively put, old fellow," I laughed, while I referred to a previously mentioned note book. "First, then, what do we know?"
"Well," replied Carnes, tilting back his chair, "we know more than mony a poor fellow has known when he set out to work up a knotty case. We know we are in the field, bedad. We know that horses have been stolen, houses broken open, robberies great and small committed here. We know they have been well planned and systematic, engineered by a cute head."
Carnes stopped abruptly, and looked over as if he expected me to finish the summing up.
"Yes," I replied, "we knew all that in the beginning; now for what we have picked up. First, then, just run your eye over this memorandum; I made it out to-day, and, like a love letter, it should be destroyed as soon as read. Here you have, as near as I could get them, the names of the farmers who have lost horses, harness, buggies, etc. Here is the average distance of their respective residences from the town, and their directions. Do you see the drift?"
Carnes rubbed the bridge of his nose; a favorite habit.
"No, be the powers," he ejaculated; "St. Patrick himself couldn't see the sinse o' that."
"Very good. Now, here is a map of this county. On this map, one by one, you must locate those farms."