“Why,” said Barney, “how do you know that?”

“I have it,” replied Shawn, “from good authority.  He has paid three or four midnight visits to Sol, the herb docthor, and you know that a greater old scoundrel than he is doesn’t breathe the breath of life.  It has been long suspected that he is a poisoner, and they say that in spite of the poverty he takes on him, he is rich and full of money.  It can be for no good, then, that Woodward consults him at such unseasonable hours.”

“Ay; but who the devil could he think of poisoning?” said Barney.  “I see nobody he could wish to poison.”

“Maybe, for all that, the deed is done,” replied Shawn.  “Where, for instance, is unfortunate Granua?  Who can tell that he hasn’t dosed her?”

“I believe him villain enough to do it,” returned the other; “but still I don’t think he did.  He was at home to my own knowledge the night she disappeared, and could know nothing of what became of her.  I think that’s a sure case.”

“Well,” said Shawn, “it may be so; but in the manetime his stolen visits to the ould herb docthor are not for nothing.  I end, then, as I began—­keep your eye on him; watch him closely—­and now, good night.”

These hints were not thrown away upon Barney, who was naturally of an observant turn; and accordingly he kept a stricter eye than ever upon the motions of Harry Woodward.  This accomplished gentleman, like every villain of his class, was crafty and secret in everything he did and said; that is to say, his object was always to lead those with whom he held intercourse, to draw the wrong inference from his words and actions.  Even his mother, as the reader will learn, was not in his full confidence.  Such men, however, are so completely absorbed in the management of their own plans, that the latent principle or motive occasionally becomes apparent, without any consciousness of its exhibition on their part.  Barney soon had an opportunity of suspecting this.  His brother Charles, after what appeared to be a satisfactory convalescence, began to relapse, and a fresh fever to set in.  The first person to communicate the melancholy intelligence to Woodward happened to be Barney himself, who, on meeting him early in the morning, said,—­

“I am sorry, Mr. Woodward, to tell you that Masther Charles is a great deal worse; he spent a bad night, and it seems has got very feverish.”

A gleam of satisfaction—­short and transient, but which, however, was too significant to be misunderstood by such a sagacious observer as Barney—­flashed across his countenance—­but only for a moment.  He recomposed his features, and assuming a look expressive of the deepest sorrow, said,—­

“Good heavens, Casey, do you tell me that my poor brother is worse, and we all in such excellent spirits at what we considered his certain but gradual recovery?”

“He is much worse, sir; and the masther this morning has strong doubts of his recovery.  He’s in great affliction about him, and so are they all.  His loss would be felt in the neighborhood, for, indeed, it’s he that was well beloved by all who knew him.”