"Yes, Herbert, and now, if Mr. Die will permit, I will tell you what has happened. On yesterday afternoon, before you came to dine with me, I received that letter. No, that is from your cousin, Owen Fitzgerald. You must see that also by-and-by. It was this one,—from the younger Mollett, the man whom you saw that day in your poor father's room."
Herbert anxiously put out his hand for the letter, but he was again interrupted by Mr. Die. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Fitzgerald, for a moment. Prendergast, let me see that letter again, will you?" And taking hold of it, he proceeded to read it very carefully, still nursing his leg with his left hand, while he held the letter with his right.
"What's it all about?" said Herbert, appealing to Prendergast almost in a whisper.
"Lentè, lentè, lentè, my dear Mr. Fitzgerald," said Mr. Die, while his eyes were still intent upon the paper. "If you will take advantage of the experience of gray hairs, and bald heads,"—his own was as bald all round as a big white stone—"you must put up with some of the disadvantages of a momentary delay. Suppose now, Prendergast, that he is acting in concert with those people in—what do you call the street?"
"In Spinny Lane."
"Yes; with his father and the two women there."
"What could they gain by that?"
"Share with him whatever he might be able to get out of you."
"The man would never accuse himself of bigamy for that. Besides, you should have seen the women, Die."
"Seen the women! Tsh—tsh—tsh; I have seen enough of them, young and old, to know that a clean apron and a humble tone and a down-turned eye don't always go with a true tongue and an honest heart. Women are now the most successful swindlers of the age! That profession at any rate is not closed against them."