"Good night, Philip."
"Oh, good night—there, get along," he cried, impatiently, without looking at her, and gulping down a tumblerful of spirits. Miranda closed the door and left the two men alone together.
They remained silent for a while, Bradshaw quietly sipping his liquor, and Philip evidently disturbed and angry.
"You're sure 'twas she?" he asked at last.
"Oh, bother!" replied Bradshaw. "I'm not a mole nor a blind man. Don't I know Moll when I see her?"
"Curse her! she'll stick to me like a leech. What could have brought her here? Do you think she's tracked me?"
"She'd track you through fire, if she once got on the scent. Moll ain't the gal to be fooled, and you know it."
"What's to be done?"
"Move out of this. Take the girl to Virginia. You'll be safe enough there."
"You're right, Bradshaw. It's the best way. I ought to have done it at first. But, hang the girl, she'll weary me to death with her sermons and crying fits. Moll's worth two of her for that, matter—she scolds, but at least she never would look like a stuck fawn when I came home a little queer. For the matter of that, she don't mind a spree herself at times." And, emptying his glass, the libertine laughed at the remembrance of some past orgies.