"Good-by yersilf," hanging up the receiver. "And the divvle fly away wid
ye," grumbled O'Hagan.

As he turned away from the instrument Maitland managed to produce a sound,
something between a moan and a strangled cough. The old man whirled on his
heel. "Pwhat's thot?"

The next instant he was bending over Maitland, peering into the face drawn
and disfigured by the gag. "The saints presarve us! And who the divvle are
ye at all? Pwhy don't ye spake?"

Maitland turned purple; and emitted a furious snort.

"Misther Maitland, be all thot's strange!... Is ut mad I am? Or how did
ye get back here and into this fix, sor, and me swapin' the halls and
polishin' the brasses fernist the front dure iv'ry minute since ye wint
out?"

Indignation struggling for the upper hand with mystification in the
Irishman's brain, he grumbled and swore; yet busied his fingers. In a trice
the binding gag was loosed, and ropes and straps cast free from swollen
wrists and ankles. And, with the assistance of a kindly arm behind his
shoulders, Maitland sat up, grinning with the pain of renewing circulation
in his limbs.

"Wid these two oies mesilf saw ye lave three hours gone, sor, and I c'u'd
swear no sowl had intered this house since thin. Pwhat does ut all mane, be
all thot's holy?"

"It means," panting, "brandy and soda, O'Hagan, and be quick."