“Then where did I come from, Miss Folliard?” said the woman, with unexpected effrontery.
“From Sir Robert Whitecraft,” replied Miss Folliard, “and the wages of your dishonesty and his corruption are the sources of your inspiration. Take the woman away, papa.”
“That will do, Molly—that will do,” exclaimed the squire, “there is something' additional for you. What you have told us is very odd—very odd, indeed. Go and get your dinner in the kitchen.”
Miss Folliard then withdrew to her own room.
Between eleven and twelve o'clock that night a carriage drew up at the grand entrance of Corbo Castle, out of which stepped Sir Robert Whitecraft and no less a personage than the Red Rapparee. They approached the hall door, and after giving a single knock, it was opened to them by the squire himself, who it would seem had been waiting to receive them privately. They followed him in silence to his study.
Mr. Folliard, though a healthy-looking man, was, in point of fact, by no means so. Of a nervous and plethoric habit, though brave, and even intrepid, yet he was easily affected by anything or any person that was disagreeable to him. On seeing the man whose hand had been raised against his life, and what was still more atrocious, whose criminal designs upon the honor of his daughter had been proved by his violent irruption into her chamber, he felt a suffocating sensation of rage and horror that nearly overcame him.
“Sir Robert,” he said, “excuse me; the sight of this man has sickened me. I got your note, and in your society and at your request I have suffered him to come here; under your protection, too. May God forgive me for it! The room is too close—I feel unwell—pray open the door.”
“Will there be no risk, sir, in leaving the door open?” said the baronet.
“None in the world! I have sent the servants all to bed nearly an hour ago. Indeed, the fact is, they are seldom up so late, unless when I have company.”
Sir Robert then opened the door—that is to say, he left it a little more than ajar, and returning again took his seat.