“That matters but little. Joe has forgotten all about it already, or, if he has not, I have but to say that it was a mistake, for him to fancy that it was so. You shall see, if you like, that he will not even hesitate the moment I tell him the thing is so.”
“It only remains, then, to determine where he should go,—I mean Carew; for although any locality would serve in one respect, we must bethink ourselves of every issue to this affair: and, should there be any suspicion attaching to him, he ought to be out of danger,—the danger of arrest. Where do his principal estates lie?”
“In Wicklow,—immediately around Castle Carew.”
“But he has other property?”
“Yes, he has some northern estates; and there is a mine, also, on Lough Allen belonging to him.”
“Well, why not go there?”
“There is no residence; there is nothing beyond the cabins of the peasantry, or the scarcely more comfortable dwelling of the overseer. I have it, Crowther,” cried he, suddenly, as though, a happy notion had just struck him; “I have it. You have heard of that shooting-lodge of mine at the Killeries? It was Carew's property, but has fallen into my hands; he shall go there. So far as seclusion goes, I defy Ireland to find its equal. They who have seen it, tell me it is a perfect picture of landscape beauty. He can shoot and fish and sketch for a week or so, till we see what turn this affair is like to take. Nothing could be better; the only difficulty is the distance.”
“You tell me that he is ill.”
“It is more agitation than actual illness; he was weak and feeble before this happened, and of course his nerves are terribly shaken by it.”
“The next consideration is, how to apprise his wife; at least, what we ought to tell her if he be incapable of writing.”