D'Esmonde and his friend Michel sat beside the fire in a small parlor of the wayside public-house called “The Rore.” They were both thoughtful and silent, and in their moody looks might be read the signs of brooding care. As for the Abbé, anxiety seemed to have worn him like sickness; for his jaws were sunk and hollow, while around his eyes deep circles of a dusky purple were strongly marked.
It was not without reason that they were thus moved; since Meekins, who hitherto rarely or never ventured abroad, had, on that morning, gone to the fair of Graigue, a village some few miles away, where he was recognized by a farmer——an old man named Lenahan—as the steward of the late Mr. Godfrey. It was to no purpose that he assumed all the airs of a stranger to the country, and asked various questions about the gentry and the people. The old farmer watched him long and closely, and went home fully satisfied that he had seen Black Sam,—the popular name by which he was known on the estate. In his capacity of bailiff, Black Sam had been most unpopular in the country. Many hardships were traced to his counsels; and it was currently believed that Mr. Godfrey would never have proceeded harshly against a tenant except under his advice. This character, together with his mysterious disappearance after the murder, were quite sufficient, in peasant estimation, to connect him with the crime; and no sooner had Lenahan communicated his discovery to his friends, than they, one and all, counselled him to go up to the doctor—as Grounsell was called on the property—and ask his advice.
The moment Grounsell heard that the suspected man called himself Meekins, he issued a warrant for his arrest; and so promptly was it executed that he was taken on that very evening as he was returning to “The Rore.” The tidings only reached the little inn after nightfall, and it was in gloomy confabulation over them that the two priests were now seated. The countryman who had brought the news was present when the police arrested Sam, and was twice called back into the parlor as D'Esmonde questioned him on the circumstance.
It was after a long interval of silence that the Abbé for the third time summoned the peasant before him.
“You have not told me under what name they arrested him. Was it Meekins?”
“The Sergeant said, 'you call yourself Meekins, my good man?' and the other said, 'Why not?' 'Oh, no reason in life,' says the Sergeant; 'but you must come with us,—that 's all.' 'Have you a warrant for what you 're doing?' says he. 'Ay,' says the polis; 'you broke yer bail——'”
“Yes, yes,” broke in D'Esmonde, “You mentioned all that already. And Meekins showed no fear on being taken?”
“No more than your Reverence does this minute. Indeed, I never see a man take it so easy. 'Mind what you 're doing,' says he; 'for, though I 'm a poor man, I have strong friends that won't see me wronged.' And then he said something about one 'Father Matthew;' but whether it was you, or that other clergyman there, I don't know.”
“They took him to Thomastown?”
“No, your Reverence,—to Kilkenny.”