At length he bethought him how little likely it was that Magennis would remember anything whatever of the transaction, and that his late debauch might obliterate all memory of the affair. “What if this were to be the case, and that we were to arrive too late at Oughterard? A pretty version would the papers then publish to the world!” Of all possible casualties this was the very worst; and the more he reflected on it, the more probable did it seem. “He is the very fellow to wake up late in the afternoon, rub his eyes, and declare he had forgotten the whole thing.”
“This will never do!” muttered he to himself; and at once determined that he would make an endeavor to recall his friend to consciousness, and come to some arrangement for the approaching meeting. Massingbred descended the stairs with noiseless steps, and gently approaching the door of the sitting-room, opened it.
Magennis was asleep, his head resting upon the table, and his heavy breathing denoting how deeply he slumbered. On a low stool at his feet sat Joan, pale and weary-looking, her cheeks still marked with recent tears, and the dark impression of what seemed to have been a blow beneath her eye. Jack approached her cautiously, and asked if it were his custom to pass the night thus.
“Sometimes, when he 's tired—when he has anything on his mind,” replied she, in some confusion, and averting her head so as to escape notice.
“And when he awakes,” said Jack, “he will be quite refreshed, and his head all clear again?”
“By coorse he will!” said she, proudly. “No matter what he took of a night, nobody ever saw the signs of it on him the next morning.”
“I did not ask out of any impertinent curiosity,” continued Massingbred; “but we have, both of us, some rather important business to-morrow in Oughterard. We ought to be there at an early hour.”
“I know,” said she, interrupting. “He bid me bring down these;” and she pointed to a case of pistols lying open beside her, and in cleaning which she had been at the moment engaged. “I brought the wrong ones, first.” Here she stammered out something, and grew crimson over her whole face; then suddenly recovering herself, said, “I did n't know it was the 'Terries' he wanted.”
“The 'Terries'?” repeated Jack.
“Yes, sir. It was these Terry Callaghan shot the two gentlemen with, the same morning, at Croghaglin,—father and son they were!” And saying these words in a voice of the most perfect unconcern possible, she took up a flannel rag and began to polish the lock of one of the weapons.