But at this moment Harold’s hand encountered the bolt. With a sigh of relief he shot it into the socket, and then, searching farther, he supplemented the defences with a massive bar, which, he knew, ought always to be in place at night.
Then he sped back along the passage, while muttered curses reached his ears from without, and the door was shaken furiously.
“Jack, Jack,” he panted, as he flung open the door of the room in which the young men slept—“Jack, come down and—”
He stopped abruptly. Mr. Connolly was kneeling at the bedside, and his two sons knelt to the right and left of him.
There were no family prayers at Lisnahoe; only the ladies were regular church-goers; but that it was a religious household no one could have doubted who knew the events of the night and saw the old man on his knees between his boys.
They rose at the noise of Harold’s entrance, and the American, who felt that there were no moments to be wasted on apologies, announced his errand.
“Old Peter Dwyer is a traitor! He has gone out and brought the murderers to finish the work they have commenced.”
And then, in eager, breathless words, he told them how he had heard the conversation in the shrubbery, and how the men, apprehensive that Miss Connolly could identify them, had returned to stifle her testimony.
“They were right there,” said the old man. “She saw the first blow, and it was struck by Red Mike Driscoll.”
“Then she is better?” asked Harold, eagerly.