CHAPTER LI.
FLORA GUY.
"Why, I thought you had done for that fellow, that O'Connor," exclaimed Blarden, after he had carefully closed the door. "I thought you had pinked him through and through like a riddle—isn't he dead—didn't you settle him?"
"So I thought myself, but some troublesome people have the art of living through what might have killed a hundred," rejoined Ashwoode; "and I do not at all like this servant of his privately coming here, to hold conference with my sister's maid—it looks suspicious; if it be, however, as I suspect, I have effectually countermined them."
"Well, then," replied Blarden, with an oath, "at all events we must set to work now in earnest."
"The first thing to be done is to find a substitute for the girl whom I am about to dismiss," said Ashwoode, "we must select carefully, one whom we can rely upon—do you choose her?"
"Why, I'm no great judge of such cattle," rejoined Blarden. "But here's Chancey that understands them. I stake this ring to a sixpence he has one in his eye this very minute that'll fit our purpose to a hair—what do you say, Gordy, boy—can you hit on the kind of wench we want—eh, you old sly boots?"
Chancey sat sleepily before the fire, and a languid, lazy smile expanded his sallow sensual face as he gazed at the bars of the grate.
"Are you tongue-tied, or what?" exclaimed Blarden; "speak out—can you find us such a one as we want? she must be a regular knowing devil, and no mistake—as sly as yourself—a dead hand at a scheming game like this—a deep one."
"Well, maybe I do," drawled Chancey, "I think I know a girl that would do, but maybe you'd think her too bad."