They turned back, this time making a wider circle. Almost under the kitchen window grew a dense thicket of laurel and other evergreen shrubs. Dick stooped and let the light of the lantern penetrate beneath the overhanging branches.
There, within three steps of the house, lay Fergus, pale and blood-stained, with a sickening dent in his temple—a murdered man.
Old Peter Dwyer was the first to break the silence: “The Lord be good to him! They’ve done for him this time, an’ no mistake.”
The lifeless body was lifted gently and borne toward the house. Harold hastened in advance to make sure that none of the ladies were astir to be shocked by the grisly sight. The hall was deserted. Doubtless Polly’s condition demanded all their attention.
“The girl saw him murdered,” muttered Mr. Connolly. “I thought it must have been something out of the common to upset her so.”
“D’ ye think did she, sir?” asked old Peter, eagerly.
“I havnen’t a doubt of it,” replied the old gentlemen shortly. “Thank goodness, her evidence will hang the villain, whoever he may be.” “Ah, the poor thing, the poor thing!” murmured the servant, and then the sad procession entered the house.
The body was laid on a table. It would have been useless to send for a surgeon. There was not one to be found within several miles, and it was but too evident that life was extinct. The top of the man’s head was beaten to a pulp. He had been clubbed to death.
“If it costs me every shilling I have in the world, and my life to the boot of it,” said Mr. Connolly, “I’ll see the ruffians that did the deed swing for their night’s work.”
“Amin,” assented Peter, solemnly; and Jack’s handsome face darkened as he mentally recorded an oath of vengeance.