"He was latterly much—entirely my friend," replied O'Connor.
"He so professed himself?" asked O'Hanlon.
"Ay," replied O'Connor, somewhat surprised at the tone in which the question was put, "he did so profess himself, and repeatedly."
"He is a villain—he has betrayed you," said the elder man, sternly.
"How—what—a villain! Henry Ashwoode deceive me?" said O'Connor, turning pale as death.
"Yes—unless I've been strangely practised on—he has villainously deceived alike you and his own sister—pretending friendship, he has sowed distrust between you."
"But have you evidence of what you say?" cried O'Connor. "Gracious God—what have I done!"
"I have evidence, and you shall hear and judge of it yourself," replied O'Hanlon; "you cannot hear it to-night, however, nor I produce it—you need some rest, and so in truth do I—make use of that poor bed—a tired brain and weary body need no luxurious couch—I shall see you in the morning betimes—till then farewell."
The young man would fain have detained O'Hanlon, and spoken with him, but in vain.
"We have talked enough for this night," said the elder man—"I have it not in my power now to satisfy you—I shall, however, in the morning—I have taken measures for the purpose—good-night."