“I am surprised myself,” replied Val; “they ought certainly to have been here before now. Darby got clear instructions to summon them.”
“Perhaps they won't come,” observed the other, “until—Gad, there's his rascally knock, at all events. Perhaps he has sent them up.”
“No,” said Val; “I gave him positive instructions to order them here in the first instance.”
Darby now entered.
“Well, Darby,” said Val, who, on account of certain misgivings, treated the embryo gaoler with more civility than usual; “what news? How many cars and carts have von got?”
Darby sat down and compressed his lips, blew out his cheeks, and after looking about the apartment for a considerable time, let out his breath gradually until the puff died away.
“What's the matter with you, Darby?” again inquired Val.
Darby went over to him, and looking seriously into his face—then suddenly laying down his hat—said, as he almost wrung his hands—
“There's a Spy, sir, on the Estate; a Popish Spy, as sure as Idolathry is rank in this benighted land.”
“A Spy!” exclaimed Phil, “we know there is.”