“I may as well tell you that Doctor Rogan will require to know what may lead him to a history of her case, and he won’t treat her if there’s to be any mystery about it.”
O’Rorke’s eyes flashed, as if an insolent answer was on his lips, and then, as quickly controlling himself, said, “Go and have your consultation, and then come back here to me; but mind you ask for me—Mr. O’Rorke—and don’t speak to any one else than myself.”
The doctor took his leave, and O’Rorke, instead of returning to the room, slowly descended the stairs and strolled out into the street.
It was night; there were few about; and he had ample opportunity for a quiet commune with himself, and that species of “audit” in which a man strikes the balance of all that may be pro or contra in any line of action. He knew well he was on dangerous ground with Ladarelle. It needed not an intelligence sharp as his own to show that a deep mistrust existed between them, and that each only waited for an opportunity to shake himself free of the other. “If I was to go over to the old man and tell him the whole plot, I wonder how it would be?” muttered he to himself. “I wonder would he trust me? and, if he was to trust me, how would he pay me? that’s the question—how would he pay me?” The quiet tread of feet behind him made him turn at this moment. It was the waiter of the inn coming to tell him that the post had just brought two letters to the gentleman he had dined with, and he wished to see him at once.
“Shut |he door—turn the key in it,” said Ladarelle, as O’Rorke entered. “Here’s something has just come by the mail. I knew you’d blunder about those letters,” added he, angrily; “one has reached Luttrell already, and, for aught I know, another may have come to hand since this was written. There, there, what’s the use of your excuses. You promised me the thing should be done, and it was not done. It does not signify a brass farthing to me to know why. You’re very vain of your Irish craft and readiness, and yet I tell you, if I had entrusted this to my fellow Fisk, Cockney as he is, I’d not have been disappointed.”
“Very like,” said O’Rorke, sullenly; “he’s more used to dirty work than I am.”
Ladarelle had just begun to run his eyes over one of the letters when he heard these words, and the paper shook in his hand with passion, and the colour came and went in his face, but he still affected to read on, and never took his gaze from the letter. At last he said, in a shaken voice, which all his efforts could not render calm, “This is a few lines from Fisk, enclosing a letter from Luttrell for Sir Within. Fisk secured it before it reached its destination.”
To this insinuated rebuke O’Rorke made no rejoinder, and, after a pause, the other continued: “Fisk says little, but it is all to the purpose. He has reduced every day to a few lines in journal fashion, so that I know what goes on at Dalradern as if I were there myself.”
O’Rorke kept an unbroken silence, and Ladarelle went on: “The day you left the Castle, Sir Within wrote to Calvert and Mills, his solicitors, and despatched by post a mass of documents and parchments. The next day he wrote to Mr. Luttrell of Arran, posting the letter himself as he drove through Wrexham.”
“That letter was the one I stopped at Westport,” broke in O’Rorke.