“Lady Eleanor Darcy come out to call upon you, sir!” said O'Reilly, with an amazement in part simulated to flatter the old man's skill, but far more really experienced. “This is indeed success.”
“Ay, you may well say so,” chimed in the old man; “for besides that I always look ten years older when I 'm in bed and unshaved, with my nightcap a little off,—this way,—the very sight of these miserable walls, green with damp and mould, this broken window, and the poverty-struck furniture, will all help, and I can get up a cough, if I only draw a long breath.”
“I vow, sir, you beat us all; we are mere children compared to you. This is a master-stroke of policy.”
“What will Nalty say now—eh, Bob?”
“Say, sir? What can any one say, but that the move showed a master's hand, as much above our skill to accomplish as it was beyond our wit to conceive? I should like greatly to hear how you intend to play the game out,” said O'Reilly, throwing a most flattering expression of mingled curiosity and astonishment into his features.
“Wait till I see what trumps the adversary has in hand, Bob; time enough to determine the lead when the cards are dealt.”
“I suppose I must keep out of sight, and perhaps Nalty also.”
“Nalty ought to be in the house if we want him; as my medical friend, he could assist to draw any little memorandum we might determine upon; a mere note, Bob, between friends, not requiring the interference of lawyers, eh?” There was something fiendish in the low laugh which accompanied these words. “What brings that fellow into the room so often, putting turf on, and looking if the windows are fast? I don't like him, Bob.” This was said in reference to a little chubby man, in a waiter's jacket, who really had taken every imaginable professional privilege to obtrude his presence.
“There, there, that will do,” said O'Reilly, harshly; “you needn't come till we ring the bell.”
“Leave the turf-basket where it is. Don't you think we can mind the fire for ourselves?”