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, the careworn, the solicitous of his master's fortunes—he of the brilliant head of hair—who slumbered peacefully on the foot of O'Rourke's bed, was roused by the application of the toe of O'Rourke's boot.

He looked up, yawning and digging clenched fists into his sleep-laden eyes. O'Rourke stood over him, ejecting the cartridges from the cylinder of his revolver and reloading the weapon with a scrupulous care.

Without even a sidelong glance at his body servant, the Irishman absentmindedly, carelessly, kicked him a second time. "Get up, ye lazy gossoon!" he murmured softly. "Who d'ye think ye are, to be wallowing there and making the night hideous with the snoring of ye? Get up—and that at once, Danny!"

Grumbling a remonstrance, Danny got to his feet and stretched himself; he looked at the clock. "Three, is it?" he cried. "Sure, now, sor, 'tis yersilf that's the late one to bed! Sit down, sor, and I'll be taking aff the boots av ye."

"Ye'll be doing naught of the sort, Danny," remarked O'Rourke pleasantly. "'Tis yourself, on the contrary, who'll be putting a hat over that fiery crop of ye, and coming along with me."

"Sure, now, sor, 'tis yer honor's joking," expostulated Danny.

"Um-m," agreed O'Rourke. "But 'tis not the time for