“At Lord Castlereagh's!” And nothing but the presence of the man repressed the passionate exclamation that quivered on his lip.
“Yes, sir, his Lordship and Mr. Heffernan called here—”
“Mr. Heffernan,—Mr. Con Heffernan do you mean?” interrupted he, quickly. “Ah! I have it now. And when was this visit?”
“On Monday last, sir.”
“On Monday,” said Daly to himself. “The very day the letter was written to me: there's something in it, after all. Drive to Kildare Place, and as fast as you can,” said he, aloud, as he sprang into the chaise.
The steps were up, the door banged to, the horses lashed into a gallop, and the next moment saw the chaise at the end of the street.
Short as the distance was,—scarcely a mile to Heffer-nan's house,—Daly's impatient anxiety made him think it an eternity. His object was to reach the house before Heffernan started; for he judged rightly that not only was the Secretary's dinner planned by that astute gentleman, but that its whole conduct and machinery rested on his dexterity.
“I know the fellow well,” muttered Daly,—“ay, and, by Heaven! he knows me. His mock candor and his counterfeit generosity have but a bad chance with such men as myself; but Darcy's open, unsuspecting temperament is the very metal he can weld and fashion to his liking.”
It was in the midst of reflections like these, mingled with passionate bursts of impatience at the pace, which was, notwithstanding, a sharp gallop, that they dashed up to Heffer-nan's door. To make way for them, a chariot that stood there was obliged to move on.
“Whose carriage is this?” said Daly, as, without waiting for the steps to be lowered, he sprang to the ground.