“Without vanity I might say it was. Poor old D'Orsay always said, 'Scratch M'Caskey, and I'll back myself for success against any man in Europe.'”
Maitland started as if a viper had bitten him; but by an effort he seemed to restrain himself, and, taking out his cigar-case, began a diligent search for a cigar.
“Ha, cheroots, I see?” cried M'Caskey; “cheroots are a weakness of mine. Pick me out a well-spotted one, will you?”
Maitland threw the case as it was across the table to him without a word.
M'Caskey selected some six or eight, and laid them beside him. “You are low, depressed, this evening, Maitland,” said he; “what's the matter with you?”
“No, sir, not depressed,—disgusted.”
“Ah, disgusted!” said M'Caskey, slowly; and his small eyes twinkled like two balls of fire. “Would it be indiscreet to ask the cause?”
“It would be very indiscreet, Count M'Caskey,” interposed Caffarelli, “to forget that you are here purely on a grave matter of business,—far too grave to be compromised by any forgetfulness on the score of temper.”
“Yes, sir,” broke in Maitland; “there can always be found a fitting time and place to arrange any small questions outstanding between you and me. We want now to learn something of what you have done in Ireland lately, for the King's service.”
M'Caskey drew from his pocket a much-worn pocket-book, crammed to bursting with a variety of loose papers, cards, and photographs, which fell about as he opened it. Not heeding the disorder, he sought out a particular page, and read aloud: “Embarked this twenty-second of September, at Gravesend, on board the 'Ocean Queen,' bound for Messina with machinery, two hundred and eleven laborers—laborers engaged for two years—to work on the State railroads, twenty-eight do. do. on board of the 'Star of Swansea,' for Molo de Gaeta with coals,—making, with three hundred and eighty-two already despatched, within about thirty of the first battalion of the Cacciatori of St Patrick.”