The Search Party. George A. Birmingham

same. It was the size of a young pullet’s egg, and you’d feel it lepping when you put your hand on it, the same as it might be a trout. ‘Biddy, agra,’ he says, speaking to me, as it might be to yourself or to some other young lady that would be in it, instead of an old woman like myself, ‘medicine’s no good,’ says he, ‘but the knife is what’s wanted.’ ‘Would you not be afeared,’ I said, ‘to be trusting yourself to them murdering doctors up in Dublin, and maybe a young lady somewhere that would be crying her eyes out after you, and you dead?’ ‘I would not be afeared,’ says he—och, but he was a fine man!—‘only I wouldn’t like the girl that’s to be married to me to know,’ says he; ‘I’d be obliged to you if you’d keep it from her,’ says he; ‘and what’s more, I’ll go to-morrow.’”

      Miss Blow did not believe a word of it, but old Biddy Halloran reaped her reward. Jimmy O’Loughlin, when the conversation was reported to him, sent her a present of a bottle of patent medicine which had been a long time in the shop and appeared to be unsaleable. It professed to cure indigestion, and to free the system from uric acid if taken in teaspoonfuls after meals. Biddy Halloran rubbed it into her knees and felt her rheumatic pains greatly relieved.

      Miss Blow sought and, after many inquiries, found the woman who had acted as Dr. O’Grady’s house-keeper, and had basely deserted him in the hour of his extremest need. She had taken refuge, as a temporary lodger, with Patsy Devlin’s wife. It was understood that she would pay for her board and lodging when her solicitor succeeded in recovering the wages due to her. The news of the doctor’s flight had depressed her. She felt that she was greatly wronged; but even when smarting from her loss, she was not so heartless as to revenge herself by telling the terrible truth to an innocent and beautiful creature like Miss Blow. She gave it as her opinion that the doctor, driven to desperation, perhaps almost starved, had poisoned himself. He had, she asserted, bottles enough in his surgery to poison the whole country. His body, she believed, was lying in the house behind the locked doors.

      “If so be,” she added, “that the rats haven’t him ate; for the like of that house with rats, I never seen. Many’s the time, when the doctor would be out, I’ve sat the whole evening on the kitchen table, with my legs tucked up under me, and them running across the floor the same as hens would come to you when you’d be calling them. You couldn’t put down a dish out of your hand, but they’d whip the bit off of it before your eyes, without you’d have some sort of a cover to put over it.”

      No one who was even slightly acquainted with Dr. O’Grady could suppose him capable of suicide under any conceivable circumstances. Miss Blow, who of course knew him well, was quite unimpressed by the housekeeper’s horrible suggestion. But she realized that the truth, whatever it was, was not to be reached by inquiries. Jimmy O’Loughlin and Patsy Devlin lied to her. So did Biddy Halloran. So did the house-keeper. There was evidently an organized conspiracy among the people of Clonmore for the concealment of the truth. Miss Blow had a logical mind. It seemed plain to her that if everybody agreed to tell lies the truth must be something of a dangerous or uncomfortable kind. She had some knowledge of Ireland, gleaned from the leading articles of English newspapers. She knew, for instance, that it was a country of secret societies, of midnight murders, of defeated justice, of lawlessness which scorned the cloak of hypocrisy. She had heard of reigns of terror, emphasized by the epithet “veritable.” She was firmly convinced that the lives of respectable people were not safe on the west side of the Shannon. Her father, Mr. Blow of the cigars, was an earnest politician, and at election times his house was full of literature about Ireland which his daughter read. Her experience of the people of Clonmore went far beyond her worst expectations. She made up her mind that Dr. O’Grady had been murdered; that everybody in the place knew the fact; and that, either through fear or an innate fondness for crime, no one would help to bring the murderers to justice.

      It is very much to her credit that she did not take the next train home; for she must have thought that her own life was in great danger. But she was a young woman of determination and courage. She made up her mind to discover and bring to the scaffold the men who had done away with Dr. O’Grady. Her suspicions fastened, in the first instance, on Jimmy O’Loughlin and Patsy Devlin.

      “Mr. O’Loughlin,” she said, when she returned to the hotel after her interview with the housekeeper, “kindly tell me who is the nearest magistrate.”

      “You haven’t far to go to look for a magistrate, miss, if that’s all you want. I’m one myself.”

      “I don’t believe you,” said Miss Blow, rudely.

      “Maybe not,” said Jimmy; “but I’m telling you the truth for all that. Let you go into the Petty Sessions Court to-morrow, and see if I’m not sitting there on the bench; with the police and Mr. Goddard himself, that’s the officer, if he happens to be over from Ballymoy, doing what I bid them, be that same agreeable to them or not; and oftener it’s not, for them police think a lot of themselves. When you see me there administering the law you’ll be sorry for what you’re after saying. It’s the Chairman of the Urban District Council I am, and an ex-officio magistrate, thanks be to God.”

      “Is there any other magistrate in the neighbourhood?”

      “There is not; for the R. M. lives away off at Ballymoy, and that’s better than twelve miles from this. There’s ne’er another, only myself and Lord Manton up at the Castle, and he never sits on the bench from one year’s end to another, unless maybe there’s a job on that he’d like to have his finger in.”

      The title produced its effect on Miss Blow. Earls are much less common in the industrial districts of England than they are in Ireland. The statistics have never been exactly worked out, but there can be little doubt that there are far more earls to every thousand common men in Ireland than in any other part of the three kingdoms. This is not because governments are more generous to the Irish in the matter of titles. The explanation is to be found in the fact that untitled people in Ireland tend to disappear, thinned out by famine, emigration, and various diseases, while the earls survive. In England it is the noblemen who die away, being, as every reader of popular English novels knows, a degraded set of men, addicted to frightful vices, whereas the working men and the great middle class increase rapidly, their morality being of a very superior kind. Curiously enough, the English, though perfectly aware of the facts, respect their debauched earls greatly, on account, it may be supposed, of their rarity. The Irish, on the other hand, think very little of an earl, regard him as in many respects similar to an ordinary man; earls being, as has been said, comparatively common in Ireland. Miss Blow, who had never to her knowledge seen an earl, brightened up at the mention of Lord Manton.

      “I’ll go up to the Castle,” she said, “and see him to-morrow morning.”

      Jimmy O’Loughlin sent a message to Patsy Devlin, asking him to call at the hotel that evening. The fact that he had not been elected inspector of sheep dipping still rankled in Patsy’s mind. He blamed Jimmy O’Loughlin more than any one else for his rejection. He made up his mind to obey the summons, but not to be seduced from the path of righteous wrath by porter or whisky. He would refuse contemptuously to oblige Jimmy in any way.

      He was received in Jimmy O’Loughlin’s private office, a small room at the back of the hotel, which looked out on the yard. The walls were adorned with two pictures, enlarged photographs of eminent ecclesiastics with small eyes and puffy cheeks. The table was mahogany and was covered with circular stains of various sizes. There was a sideboard with a very dilapidated cruet-stand and two teapots on it. The chairs were all rickety. A writing-desk, which stood under the window, was littered with a number of exceedingly dirty papers. On the table in the middle of the room, by way of preparation for Patsy’s visit, were arranged a jug of porter, a bottle of whisky, a water croft, and several tumblers.

      “Fill your glass,” said Jimmy hospitably, “and light your pipe. You can start on the porter, and finish up with the spirits.”

      Patsy poured out the porter suspiciously, and drank a tumbler full without any sign of appreciation.

      “There isn’t one about the place,” said Jimmy, “that’s better acquainted with the old earl up at the Castle than yourself. He thinks