is track, with the
other policeman, both of whom fired at him. But as they acknowledged
afterwards, they had barely seen the skirt of his coat in the gloom
of the evening. The whole spot up and behind the corner of the road
was so honeycombed by the works of the intended canal as to afford
hiding-places and retreats for a score of murderers. Here, as
was afterwards ascertained, there was but one, and that one had
apparently sufficed.

Frank Jones had remained on the road with his friend, and had raised
him in his arms when he fell. "They have done for me this time,"
Clayton had said, but had said no more. He had in truth fainted,
but Frank Jones, in his ignorance, had thought that he was dead. It
turned out afterwards that the bullet had struck his ribs in the
front of his body, and, having been turned by the bone, had passed
round to his back, and had there buried itself in the flesh. It needs
not that we dwell with any length on this part of our tale, but may
say at once that the medical skill of Cong sufficed to extract the
bullet on the next morning.

After a while one of the two policemen came back to the road, and
assisted Frank Jones in carrying up poor Clayton to the inn. Hunter,
though still maimed by his wound, stuck to the pursuit, assisted by
two other policemen from Cong, who soon appeared upon the scene. But
the man escaped, and his flight was soon covered by the darkness
of night. It had been eight o'clock before the party had left the
inn, and had wandered with great imprudence further than they had
intended. At least, so it was said after the occurrence; though, had
nothing happened, they would have reached their homes before night
had in truth set in. But men said of Clayton that he had become so
hardened by the practices of his life, and by the failure of all
attempts hitherto made against him, that he had become incredulous of
harm.

"They have got me at last," he said to Frank the next morning. "Thank
God it was not you instead of me. I have been thinking of it as I lay
here in the night, and have blamed myself greatly. It is my business
and not yours." And then again further on in the day he sent a
message to Edith. "Tell her from me that it is all over now, but that
had I lived she would have had to be my wife."

But from that time forth he did in truth get better, though we in
these pages can never again be allowed to see him as an active
working man. It was his fault,--as the Galway doctor