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390 you will but say the word an’ do by Tom as he did by you!”

She had not thought of it before: it was a sudden inspiration of the quick Irish brain, a sudden impulse of the warm Irish heart. When Nat came in, with wet hair plastered over his thick skull, the coal-black head and the fiery beard were far enough apart. But it had not been so during every minute of his absence. And a pretty fiasco awaited him in the ball-room.

Led up to Erichsen, the overseer shook his head.

“No,” said he, “the bushranger was inches taller. I can’t swear to him after all.”

“Not swear to him?” roared Mr Nat. “Why, you took your oath he was the man!”

“Not swear to him?” said Daintree, stepping forward. “Happily, my good fellow—”

But Tom’s eye was on him, and the police were in the room.

“Try the girl,” said one constable.

“Ginger is right,” said Peggy promptly. “It’s a taller man he was entirely.”

“But you’re looking at his feet!”

Peggy raised her eyes, and calmly and coldly they met Tom’s for the last time.

“No,” said she; “this is not the man at all.”

“The liars!” Nat Sullivan screamed. “They’ve made up their minds to lie; and you two fools stand there and listen!” He stormed and wept; grew violently abusive, and was put out by the constables before they left themselves. In the scuffle and confusion Ginger found an opportunity both to grip Tom’s hand and to whisper that one good turn deserved another. But Peggy O’Brien turned her back without word or look.