One, two, three shots rang out in the evening air. Those who heard them in the roadside cabin, at the railway-station on the road, shuddered. They knew the meaning of those shots. One more murder to load the soul of Ireland.
But Lord Harry lay dead in the middle of the road.
The second man got up and felt at his throat.
"Faith!" he said, "I thought I was murdered outright. Come, Mick, let us drag him to the roadside."
They did so, and then with bent heads and slouched hats, they made their way across country to another station where they would not be recognised as the two who had followed Lord Harry down the road.
Two mounted men of the Constabulary rode along an hour later and found the body lying where it had been left.
They searched the pockets. They found a purse with a few sovereigns; the portrait of a lady—-the murdered man's wife—a sealed envelope addressed to Hugh Mountjoy, Esq, care of his London hotel; and a card-case: nothing of any importance.
"It is Lord Harry Norland," said one. "The wild lord—he has met his end at last."
The letter to Iris was brief. It said:
"Farewell! I am going to meet the death of one who is called a Traitor to the Cause. I am the Traitor of a Cause far higher. May the end that is already plotted for me be accepted as an atonement! Forgive me, Iris! Think of me as kindly as you can. But I charge you—it is my latest word—mourn not for one who has done his best to poison your life and to ruin your soul."