“Sure, an’ it must have been Misthress Greenheys, sor.”
“Mistress Greenheys!”
“A widow lady, sor, whose husband had an accident one day wid his ship and got killed.”
“And you know her!”
“We’ve been getting a little friendly lately,” said Dinny, demurely. “There, sor, you’re getting wake. Sit down on that owld stone in the shade. Bedad, it isn’t illigant, the cutting upon it, for it’s like a shkull, but it’s moighty convanient under that three. That’s better; and I’ll go and ask Bart to bring ye a cigar.”
“No, stop,” said Humphrey. “I want to talk to you, man. That woman’s husband was murdered, then?”
“Murdered! Faix, and that’s thrue. Sure, an’ someone hit him a bit too hard, sor, and he doied.”
“Murdered by these buccaneers!” said Humphrey, excitedly, and he looked wildly around him, when his eye lighted on the trim, picturesque figure of the little woman, who was intently watching them, and he saw her exchange a sign with his companion.
“The key of life—the great motive which moves the world,” said Humphrey to himself; and he turned suddenly on Dinny, who had his hand to his mouth and looked sheepish.
“You love that woman,” he said, sharply.