Woodward went out of the house more stealthily than usual, and took his way towards the town of Rathfillan.  A good way in the distance behind him might be discovered another figure dogging his footsteps, that figure being no other than the honest figure of Barney Casey.  On went Woodward unsuspicious that he was watched, until he reached the indescribable cabin of Sol Donnel, the old herbalist.  The night had become dark, and Barney was able, without being seen, to come near enough to Woodward to hear his words and observe his actions.  He tapped at the old man’s window, which, after some delay and a good deal of grumbling, was at length opened to him.  The hut consisted of only one room—­a fact which Barney well knew.

“Who is there?” said the old herbalist.  “Why do you come at this hour to deprive me of my rest?  Nobody comes for any good purpose at such an hour as this.”

“Open your door, you hypocritical old sinner, and I will speak to you.  Open your door instantly.”

“Wait, then; I will open it; to be sure—­I will open it; because I know whoever you are that if there was not something extraordinary in it, it isn’t at this hour you’d be coming to me.”

“Open the door I say, and then I shall speak to you.”

The window, which the old herbalist had opened, and, in the hurry of the moment, left unshut, remained unshut, and Barney, after Woodward had entered, stood close to it in order to hear the conversation which might pass between them.

“Now,” said Woodward, after he had entered the hut, “I want a dose from you.  One of my dogs, I fear, is seized with incipient symptoms of hydrophobia, and I wish to dose him to death.”

“And what hour is this to come for such a purpose?” asked Sol Donnel.  “It isn’t at midnight that a man comes to me to ask for a dose of poison for a dog.”

“You are very right in that,” replied Woodward; “but the truth is, that I had an assignation with a girl in the town, and I thought that I might as well call upon you now as at any other time.”

The eye of the old sinner glistened, for he knew perfectly well that the malady of the dog was a fable.

“Well,” said he, “I can give you the dose, but what’s to be the recompense?”

“What do you ask?” replied the other.  “I will dose nothing under five pounds.”

“Are you certain that your dose will be sure to effect its purpose?” asked Woodward.

“As sure as I am of life,” replied the old sinner; “one glass of it would settle a man as soon as it would a dog;” and as he spoke he fastened his keen, glittering eyes upon Woodward.  The glance seemed to say, I understand you, and I know that the dog you are about to give the dose to walks upon two legs instead of four.

“Now,” said Woodward after having secured the bottle, “here are your five pounds, and mark me——­” he looked sternly in the face of the herbalist, but added not another word.