ow!" remarked Boyne. He
leaned over Dyck for a moment. "Yes, sound asleep," he said, and laughed
scornfully to himself. "Well, when it's dark we must get him away. He'll
sleep for four or five hours, and by that time he'll be out on the way
to France, and the rest is easy."

He was about to go to the door that led into the business part of the
house, when the door leading into the street opened softly, and a woman
stepped inside. She had used the key which Boyne had forgotten at his
house.

At first he did not hear her. Then, when he did turn round, it was too
late. The knife she carried under her skirt flashed out and into Boyne's
heart. He collapsed on the floor without a sound, save only a deep sigh.

Stooping over, Noreen drew the knife out with a little gurgling cry--a
smothered exclamation. Then she opened the door again--the side-door
leading into the street-closed it softly, and was gone.

Two hours afterwards the landlord opened the door. Erris Boyne lay in
his silence, stark and still. At the table, with his head sunk in his
arms, sat Dyck Calhoun, snoring stertorously, his drawn sword by his
side.

With a cry the old man knelt on the floor beside the body of Erris
Boyne.

CHAPTER VI. DYCK IN PRISON

When Dyck Calhoun waked, he was in the hands of the king's constables,
arrested for the murder of Erris Boyne. It was hard to protest his
innocence, for the landlord was ready to swear concerning a quarrel
he had seen when he opened the door for a moment. Dyck, with sudden
caution, only said he would make all clear at the trial.

Dublin and Ireland were shocked and thrilled; England imagined she had
come upon one of the most violent episodes of Irish history. One journal
protested that it was not possible to believe in Dyck Calhoun's guilt;
that his outward habits were known to all, and were above suspicion,
although he had collogued--though never secretly, so far as the world
knew--with some of the advanced revolutionary spirits. None of the loyal
papers seemed aware of Erris Boyne's treachery; and while none spoke of
him with approval, all condemned his ugly death.

Driven through the streets of Dublin in a jaunting-car between two of
the king's police, Dyck was a mark for abuse by tongue, but was here and
there cheered by partizans of the ultra-loyal group to which his father
adhered. The effect of his potations was still upon him, and his mind
was bemused. He remembered the quarrel, Boyne's ex