“Observe, sir,” replied the other, “that I said I would deliver the letter only—­I didn’t undertake to make her read it.  But I dare say you are right—­I don’t think she will even open it at all, much less read it.  Here, sir, I return both money and letter; and I wish you to know, besides, that I am not a man in the habit of being suspected of improper motives.  My advice that you should see my father is a proof that I am your friend.”

The other, who was completely outmanoeuvred by Corbet, at once declined to receive back either the letter or notes, and after again pressing the worthy steward to befriend him in the matter of the note as far as he could, he once more paid a visit to old Anthony.  This occurred on the day before that appointed for the marriage.

“Corbet,” said he, addressing him as he lay upon an old crazy sofa, the tarnished cover of which shone with dirt, “I am distracted, and have come to ask your advice and assistance.”

“Is it a helpless ould creature like me you’d come to?” replied Corbet, hitching himself upon the sofa, as if to get ease.  “But what is wrong now?”

“If this marriage between Miss Gourlay and Lord Dunroe takes place, I shall lose my senses.”

“Well, in troth,” replied Anthony, in his own peculiar manner, “if you don’t get more than you appear to be gifted with at present, you won’t have much to lose, and that will be one comfort.  But how can you expect me to assist you?”

“Did you not tell me that the baronet is your puppet?”

“I did; but that was for my ends, not for yours.”

“Well, but could you not prevent this accursed, sacrilegious, blasphemous union?”

“For God’s sake, spake aisy, and keep yourself quiet,” said Anthony; “I am ill, and not able to bear noise and capering like this.  I’m a weak, feeble ould man.”

“Listen to me, Corbet,” continued the other, with vehemence, “command my purse, my means to any extent, if you do what I wish.”

“I did like money,” implied Corbet, “but of late my whole heart is filled with but one thought; and rather than not carry that out, I would sacrifice every child I have.  I love Miss Gourlay, for I know she is a livin’ angel, but—­”

“What?  You do not mean to say that you would sacrifice her?”

“If I would sacrifice my own, do you think I’d be apt to spare her?” he asked with a groan, for in fact his illness had rather increased.

“Are you not better?” inquired the stranger, moved by a feeling of humanity which nothing could eradicate out of his noble and generous nature.  “Allow me to send a doctor to you?  I shall do so at my own expense.”

Anthony looked upon him with more complacency, but replied,

“The blackguard knaves, no; they only rob you first and kill you afterwards.  A highway-robber’s before them; for he kills you first, and afther that you can’t feel the pain of being robbed.  Well, I can’t talk much to you now.  My head’s beginnin’ to get troublesome; but I’ll tell you what you’ll do.  I’ll call for that young man, Fenton, and you must let him come with me to the wedding to-morrow mornin’.  Indeed, I intended to take a car, and drive over to ask it as a favor from you.”