“This is terrible news,” said I. “How is it you are not in Dublin at this moment, moving heaven and earth to find her?”
He laughed bitterly.
“It’s easy talking,” said he. “In the first place, I should be shot before I reached my own gate; I have been practically a prisoner here for weeks. In the next place, what could I do? Even if I took the oath, where is the money to come from?”
“Five hundred pounds is a small sum to a rich man like you.”
“Whoever calls me rich, lies,” said he testily, and with an uneasy gesture which explained to my mind the dilapidated state of the place. Maurice Gorman was not only a poltroon but a miser, and five hundred pounds were worth more to him than his own daughter.
“Is nothing being done?” said I. “Have you shown the letter to the authorities, or to Lord Edward?”
“What use?” said he. “I am on too ill terms with either to expect their help.”
“And so you intend to leave that poor girl to her fate?” I cried. “But if you will not move, I will!”
“What can I do?” said he wearily. “You know how I am fixed. Perhaps when I am shot they will let her go. Maybe that will be the simplest way out of it, after all.”
I could not help pitying him, much as I despised him, so miserably did he speak.