“Jonas Barton, of Curryglass House?”
“Yes, that's it.”
“Sold yesterday, under the Court, sir—for, let me see—” And he opened a small memorandum-book. “Griffith's valuation,” muttered he between his teeth, “was rather better than the Commissioner's,—yes, sir, they got a bargain of that property yesterday; it went for twenty-two thousand six hundred—”
“Great God, sir; the whole estate?”
“The whole estate; there is a tithe-rent charge—”
“There, there, don't you see he does not hear you?” said Lord Glengariff, angrily. “Have you no room where he can sit down for half an hour or so?” And so saying, he assisted the servant to carry the now lifeless form into a small chamber beside them. The sick man rallied soon, and as quickly remembered where he was.
“This is bad news, Glengariff,” said he, with a sickly effort at a smile. “Have you heard who was the buyer?”
“No, no; what does it matter? Take my arm and get out of this place. Where are you stopping in town? Can I set you down?” said the other, in hurry and confusion.
“I'm with my son-in-law at Ely Place; he is to call for me here, so you can leave me, my dear friend, for I see you are impatient to get away.”
Lord Glengariff pressed his hand cordially, and descended the stairs far more rapidly than he had mounted them.