‘And has he been recognised here?  The townspeople are so curious.’

’Why, dear child, not one of them ever saw him before.  He’s been lost sight of by all but a few, a very few friends.  My Lord Castlemallard, who was his guardian, of course, knows; and to me he disclosed himself by letter; and we keep his secret; though it matters little who knows it, for it seems to me he’s as unhappy as aught could ever make him.  The townspeople take him for his cousin, who squandered his fortune in Paris; and how is he the better of their mistake, and how were he the worse if they knew him for whom he is?  ’Tis an unhappy family—­a curse haunts it.  Young in years, old in vice, the wretched nobleman who lies in the vault, by the coffin of that old aunt, scarcely better than himself, whose guineas supplied his early profligacy—­alas! he ruined his ill-fated, beautiful cousin, and she died heart-broken, and her little child, both there—­in that melancholy and contaminated house.’

So he rambled on, and from one tale to another, till little Lily’s early bed-hour came.

I don’t know whether it was Doctor Walsingham’s visit in the morning, and the chance of hearing something about it, that prompted the unquiet Tom Toole to roll his cloak about him, and buffet his way through storm and snow, to Devereux’s lodgings.  It was only a stone’s-throw; but even that, on such a night, was no trifle.

However, up he went to Devereux’s drawing-room, and found its handsome proprietor altogether in the dumps.  The little doctor threw off his sleety cloak and hat in the lobby, and stood before the officer fresh and puffing, and a little flustered and dazzled after his romp with the wind.

Devereux got up and received him with a slight bow and no smile, and a ‘Pray take a chair, Doctor Toole.’

‘Well, this is a bright fit of the dismals,’ said little Toole, nothing overawed.  ‘May I sit near the fire?’

‘Upon it,’ said Devereux, sadly.

‘Thank’ee,’ said Toole, clapping his feet on the fender, with a grin, and making himself comfortable.  ‘May I poke it?’

’Eat it—­do as you please—­anything—­everything; play that fiddle (pointing to the ruin of Puddock’s guitar, which the lieutenant had left on the table), or undress and go to bed, or get up and dance a minuet, or take that pistol, with all my heart, and shoot me through the head.’

‘Thank’ee, again.  A fine choice of amusements, I vow,’ cried the jolly doctor.

’There, don’t mind me, nor all I say, Toole.  I’m, I suppose, in the vapours; but, truly, I’m glad to see you, and I thank you, indeed I do, heartily, for your obliging visit; ’tis very neighbourly.  But, hang it, I’m weary of the time—­the world is a dull place.  I’m tired of this planet, and should not mind cutting my throat and trying a new star.  Suppose we make the journey together, Toole; there is a brace of pistols over the chimney, and a fair wind for some of them.’