“And which is, pray?”
“That is my secret. Time will show.”
“What!” exclaimed he, “some new conspiracy to rob me? And one of the conspirators a man who presumes to my daughter’s hand! Come, Gallagher, let you and me understand each other. I defy you, or Biddy, or any one, to make good your story. But if you are frank with me, you won’t find me unreasonable. Let me see the documents.”
“In good time, sir,” said I. “Now, as to the smugglers.”
And we proceeded to talk about the object of our cruise. I found he had little news to give me, or else he chose to give little, and after a while I rose to go. He pressed me to stay the night, urging his solitude; but I had no desire to prolong the interview.
“We shall meet again,” said I; “and you may rely on hearing from me if I have any news of your daughter.”
We were out on the doorstep by this time. It was a beautiful, fresh evening, with a half-moon hanging above the opposite hills and sending a broad track of shimmering light across the lough.
“It’s a tempting night,” said he. “I’ve not taken the air for days. I’ve a good mind to see you to your boat.”
For all that, he looked round uneasily, with the air of a man who suspected a lurking foe in every rustling leaf.
“Two of you men follow,” said he to the sentries at the door. “Keep me in view. Ah, how fresh the air is after that close room! Yes, Gallagher, you were speaking of my daughter. Since she left me—keep in the shade, man, it’s safer—this place has been a hell to me. What’s the use of—what’s that?” he exclaimed, catching my arm; “it sounded like a man’s breathing. What’s the use of keeping it up, I say? I’ve a mind to—”