“But he doesn’t consort with him; he hates him. He was simply engaged to make certain investigations for him as a scientific man. Why, I don’t suppose you yourself hate Murdock more than Dick does.”
“Thin I ax yer pardon, sir,” said Joyce. “I like to wrong no man, an’ I’m glad to be set right.”
Things were going admirably, and we were all beginning to feel at ease, when we saw Andy approach. I groaned in spirit—Andy was gradually taking shape to me as an evil genius. He approached, and making his best bow, said:—
“Fine evenin’, Misther Joyce. I hope yer arrum is betther—an’ how is Miss Norah?”
“Thank ye kindly, Andy; both me arm and the girl’s well.”
“Is she widin?”
“No! she wint this mornin’ to stay over Monday in the convent. Poor girl! she’s broken-hearted, lavin’ her home and gettin’ settled here. I med the changin’ as light for her as I could—but weemin takes things to heart more nor min does, an’ that’s bad enough, God knows!”
“Thrue for ye,” said Andy. “This gintleman here, Masther Art, says he hasn’t seen her since the night she met us below in the dark.”
“I hope,” said Joyce, “you’ll look in and see us, if you’re in these parts, sir, whin she comes back. I know she thought a dale of your kindness to me that night.”
“I’ll be here for some days, and I’ll certainly come, if I may.”