“What a———-fool you are,” cried Ladarelle, passionately, “not to see that you may as well tell me now, what, before two hours are over, I shall know for nothing; out with it, what was in the letter.”
“How can I tell what’s in a sealed letter,” said O’Rorke, sulkily, for he was not very patient under this mode of interrogation.
“You know who wrote it, at all events?”
“I’ll tell you what I know!” said O’Rorke, resolutely. “That I’ll not answer any more questions, and that I’ll leave this room now.”
As he turned towards the door, Ladarelle sprang up and said, “You mistake me, my good fellow, if you think I want all this for nothing. If you knew a little more of me, you’d see I was a pleasanter fellow to deal with than my old relation yonder. What is your name?”
“My name,” said he, with a sort of dogged pride—“my name is O’Rorke.”
“Timothy O’Rorke? Ain’t I right?”
“You are indeed, however you knew it.”
“You shall soon see. I have had a letter for you in my writing-desk for many a long day. ‘Timothy O’Rorke, Vinegar Hill, Cush—something or other, Ireland.’”
“And who wrote it, Sir?” said O’Rorke, approaching him, and speaking in a low, anxious voice.