“If I were to have my choice, it would puzzle me sorely to determine whether I'd rather be left a fine estate,—four or five thousand a year,—or be able to send old Fossbrooke to a penal settlement. I am afraid, sorely afraid, my disinterestedness would gain the day, and that I 'd sacrifice my enjoyment to my vengeance! He has done me such a long list of wrongs, I 'd like to square the account. It would be a moment worth living for,—that instant when the word Guilty would drop from the jury-box, and that I could lean over the dock and exchange a look with him. I 'm not so sure he 'd quail, though; but the shame,—the shame might unman him!”
He had reached the gate of the avenue as he thus mused, and was about to insert the key in the lock, when a man arose from a little bench beside the lodge, and said,—“A fine night, sir; I 'm glad you 're come.”
“Who are you? Stand off!” cried Se well, drawing his revolver, as he spoke, from his breast-pocket.
“O'Reardon, your honor,—only O'Reardon,” said the fellow, in his well-known whine.
“And where the devil have you been this fortnight? What rascally treachery have you been hatching since I saw you? No long stories, my friend, and no lies. What have you been at?”
“I was never on any other errand than your honor's service, so help me—”
“Don't swear, old fellow, if you want me to believe you. Perjury has a sort of bird-lime attraction for scoundrels like you; so just keep away from an oath.”
O'Reardon laughed. “His honor was droll,—he was always droll,—and though not an Irishman himself, sorrow man living knew them better;” and with this double compliment to his patron and his country, the fellow went on to show that he had been on “the tracks of the ould man” since the day they parted. He had got a “case against him,”—the finest and fullest ever was seen. Mr. Spencer declared that “better informations never was sworn;” and on this they arrested him, together with his diary, his traps, his drawings, his arms, and his bullet-mould. There were grave reasons for secrecy in the case, and great secrecy was observed. The examination was in private, and the prisoner was sent to the Richmond Jail, with a blank for his name.
To the very circumstantial and prolix detail which O'Reardon gave with all the “onction” of a genuine informer, Sewell listened with a forced patience. Perhaps the thought of all the indignities that were heaped upon his enemy compensated him for the wearisomeness of the narrative. At last he stopped him in his story, and said, “And how much of this accusation do you believe?”
“All of it,—every word.”