“Beware, Tim! You are marked down, and there’s martial law after you. Informers are at work, and the names are all known. Keep on Fanad. I serve on H.M.S. Diana.—Barry.”
This done, and the board replaced, I was about to retire so as to be in time at Knockowen, when, taking a last glance round the gaunt room, my eye was attracted by the flutter of a paper pinned to the woodwork of one of the windows.
It contained a few words roughly scrawled with the end of a charred stick. This is what it said, and as I read my heart gave a great bound within me:—
“She’s safe at Malin. The Duchman sails on the flud to-night.—Finn.”
This, if it meant anything, meant foul play, and crushing the paper into my pocket, I lost not a moment in regaining my boat and making all sail for Knockowen.
Chapter Twenty Seven.
What I found at Malin.
It was nine o’clock when I came alongside his honour’s jetty, and once more demanded entrance of the sentry. This time I was received even more suspiciously than in the morning, and was allowed to wait for nearly half-an-hour before it was decided that I might safely be admitted into the premises. For this irritating delay I had probably to thank the impatience with which I met the sentinel’s questions; for when at last I found myself at the house, his honour met me with an inquiry why I had delayed my coming to so late an hour.