“If so, I'm ruined; he received the whole loan on Saturday last,—he could not delay Hickman's payment beyond Wednesday without suspicion.”
“Ah! I see it all, and the American packet does not sail till to-morrow morning from Liverpool.”
“But it may all be false,” said Darcy. “Who writes you this story?”
“It is signed 'F.,' and Freney is the man; I know the fellow that brought it.”
“I 'll not believe a word of it, Bagenal,” said the Knight, impetuously. “I 'll not credit the calumny of a highwayman against the honor of one I have known and respected for years. It is false, depend upon it.”
“Yet how it tallies with Sandy's tidings; there is something in it. Hush! Darcy, don't speak; there is some one passing.”
The sounds of feet and voices were heard at the same instant without, and among them the clear, distinctive accents of Hickman O'Reilly.
“Yes,” said he, “if the news had come a little earlier, Lord Castlereagh, would have found some of our patriots less stern in virtue. Gleeson will have carried away half a province with him.”
“There,” whispered Daly, “you heard that,—the news is about already.”
But Darcy was now totally overcome, and, with his head resting on the table, neither spoke nor stirred. “Bagenal,” said he, at length, but in a voice faint as a whisper, “I am too ill to face the House; let us turn homewards.”