“What,” cried I, “Mr. Basset!” for it was the worthy man himself.
“Yes, sir. Your father's old and confidential agent,—I might venture to say, friend,—come to see the son of his first patron occupy the station he has long merited.”
“A bad memory is the only touch of age I remark in you, sir,” said I, endeavoring to pass on, for I was unwilling at the moment of my escape from a great difficulty to lose temper with so unworthy an object.
“One moment, sir, just a moment,” said he, in a low whisper. “You'll want money, probably. The November rents are not paid up; but there's a considerable balance to your credit. Will you take a hundred or two for the present?”
“Take money!—money from you!” said I, shrinking back.
“Your own, sir; your own estate. Do you forget,” said he, with a miserable effort of a smile, “that you are Mr. Burke of Cromore, with a clear rental of four thousand a year? We gained the Cluan Bog lawsuit, sir,” continued he. “'Twas I, sir, found the satisfaction for the bond. Your brother said he owed it all to Tony Basset.”
The two last words were all that were needed to sum up the measure of my disgust and I once more tried to get forward.
“I know the property, sir, for thirty-eight years I was over it. Your father and your brother always trusted me—”
“Let me pass on, Mr. Basset,” said I, calmly. “I have no desire to become a greater object of mob curiosity. Pray let me pass on.”
“And for Darby M'Keown,” whispered he.