‘This is brief enough, at any rate,’ said Kearney, as he broke open the second letter:—
‘“DUBLIN CASTLE, Wednesday Evening.
‘“DEAR SIR,—Would you do me the great favour to call on me here at your earliest convenient moment? I am still an invalid, and confined to a sofa, or would ask for permission to meet you at your chambers.—Believe me, yours faithfully,
CECIL WALPOLE.”’
‘That cannot be delayed, I suppose?’ said Kearney, in the tone of a question.
‘Certainly not.’
‘I’ll go up by the night-mail. You’ll remain where you are, and where I hope you feel you are with a welcome.’
‘I feel it, sir—I feel it more than I can say.’ And his face was blood-red as he spoke.
‘There are scores of things you can do while I am away. You’ll have to study the county in all its baronies and subdivisions. There, my sister can help you; and you’ll have to learn the names and places of our great county swells, and mark such as may be likely to assist us. You’ll have to stroll about in our own neighbourhood, and learn what the people near home say of the intention, and pick up what you can of public opinion in our towns of Moate and Kilbeggan.’
‘I have bethought me of all that—-’ He paused here and seemed to hesitate if he should say more; and after an effort, he went on: ‘You’ll not take amiss what I’m going to say, Mr. Kearney. You’ll make full allowance for a man placed as I am; but I want, before you go, to learn from you in what way, or as what, you have presented me to your family? Am I a poor sizar of Trinity, whose hard struggle with poverty has caught your sympathy? Am I a chance acquaintance, whose only claim on you is being known to Joe Atlee? I’m sure I need not ask you, have you called me by my real name and given me my real character?’