will take care of him.  But indeed it’s an easy task.  He’ll never see his mother’s face again, as I well know.  Scarman has him, and I give the poor devil about three months to live.  He doesn’t allow him half food, but, on the other hand, he supplies him with more whiskey than he can drink; and this by the baronet’s own written orders.  As for you, Mr. Gray, for we may as well call you so yet awhile, your conduct of late has been disgraceful.”

“I grant it,” replied Mr. Gray, who was now sober; “but the truth is, I really looked, after some consideration, upon the whole plan as quite impracticable.  As the real heir, however, is dead—­”

“Not the real heir, Amby, if you please.  He, poor fellow, is in custody that he will never escape from again.  Upon my soul, I often pitied him.”

“How full of compassion you are!” replied his sister.

“I have very little for the baronet, however,” he replied; “and I hope he will never die till I scald the soul in his body.  Excuse me, Amby.  You know all the circumstances of the family, and, of course, that you are the child of guilt and shame.”

“Why, yes, I’m come on the wrong side as to birth, I admit; but if I clutch the property and title, I’ll thank heaven every day I live for my mother’s frailty.”

“It was not frailty, you unfeeling boy,” replied Ginty, “so much as my father’s credulity and ambition.  I was once said to be beautiful, and he, having taken it into his head that this man, when young, might love me, went to the expense of having me well educated.  He then threw me perpetually into his society; but I was young and artless at the time, and believed his solemn oaths and promises of marriage.”

“And the greater villain he,” observed her brother; “for I myself did not think there could be danger in your intimacy, because you and he were foster-children; and, except in his case, I never knew another throughout the length and breadth of the country, where the obligation of that tie was forgotten.”

“Well,” observed Ambrose, “we must only make the best of our position.  If I succeed, you shall, according to our written agreement, be all provided for.  Not that I would feel very strongly disposed to do much for that enigmatical old grandfather of mine.  The vile old ferret saw me in the lock-up the other morning, and refused to bail me out; ay, and threatened me besides.”

“He did right,” replied his uncle; “and if you’re caught there again, I’ll not only never bail you out, but wash my hands of the whole affair.  So now be warned, and let it be for your good.  Listen, then; for the case in which you stand is this:  there is Miss Gourlay and Dunroe going to be married after all; for she has returned to her father, and consented to marry the young lord.  The baronet, too, is ill, and I don’t think will live long.  He is burned out like a lime-kiln; for, indeed, like that, his whole life has been nothing