"She can't be too bad for the work we want her for—what the devil do you mean by BAD?" exclaimed Blarden.
"Well," continued Chancey, disregarding the last interrogatory, "she's Flora Guy, she attends in the 'Old Saint Columbkil,' a very arch little girl—I think she'll do to a nicety."
"Use your own judgment, I leave it all to you," said Blarden, "only get one at once, do you mind, you know the sort we want."
"I suppose she can't come any sooner than to-morrow, she must have notice," said Chancey, "but I'll go in there to-day if you like, and talk to her about it; I'll have her out with you here to-morrow to a certainty, an' I declare to G—— she's a very smart little girl."
"Do so," said Ashwoode, "and the sooner the better."
Chancey arose, stuffed his hands into his breeches pockets according to his wont, and with a long yawn lounged out of the room.
"Do you keep out of the way after this evening," continued Sir Henry, addressing himself to Blarden; "I will tell her that you are to leave us this night, and that your visit ends; this will keep her quiet until all is ready, and then she must be tractable."
"Do you run and find her, then," said Blarden, "and tell her that I'm off for town this evening—tell her at once—and mind, bring me word what she says—off with you, doctor—ho, ho, ho!—mind, bring me word what she says—do you hear?"
With this pleasant charge ringing in his ears, Sir Henry Ashwoode departed upon his honourable mission.
Chancey strolled listlessly into town, and after an easy ramble, at length found himself safe and sound once more beneath the roof of the 'Old Saint Columbkil.' He walked through the dingy deserted benches and tables of the old tavern, and seating himself near the hearth, called a greasy waiter who was dozing in a corner.