“And is it about Barry Lynch’s business?”

“It is.”

“Then it’s schames there’s divil a doubt of that.”

“It is schames, as you say, Martin,” said Daly, slapping him on the shoulder—­“fine schames—­no less than a wife with four hundred a-year!  Wouldn’t that be a fine schame?”

“‘Deed it would, Mr Daly, av’ the wife and the fortune were honestly come by.”

“And isn’t it a hundred pities that I must come and upset such a pretty schame as that?  But, for all that, it’s thrue.  I’m sorry for you, Martin, but you must give up Anty Lynch.”

“Give her up, is it?  Faith I haven’t got her to give up, worse luck.”

“Nor never will, Martin; and that’s worse luck again.”

“Well, Mr Daly, av’ that’s all you’ve come to say, you might have saved yourself car-hire.  Miss Lynch is nothing to me, mind; how should she be?  But av’ she war, neither Barry Lynch—­who’s as big a rogue as there is from this to hisself and back again—­nor you, who, I take it, ain’t rogue enough to do Barry’s work, wouldn’t put me off it.”

“Well, Martin; thank ’ee for the compliment.  But now, you know what I’ve come about, and there’s no joke in it.  Of course I don’t want you to tell me anything of your plans; but, as Mr Lynch’s lawyer, I must tell you so much as this of his:—­that, if his sister doesn’t lave the inn, and honestly assure him that she’ll give up her intention of marrying you, he’s determined to take proceedings.”  He then fumbled in his pocket, and, bringing out the two notices, handed to Martin the one addressed to him.  “Read that, and it’ll give you an idea what we’re afther.  And when I tell you that Moylan owns, and will swear to it too, that he was present when all the plans were made, you’ll see that we’re not going to sea without wind in our sails.”

“Well—­I’m shot av’ I know the laist in the world what all this is about!” said Martin, as he stood in the street, reading over the legally-worded letter—­“’conspiracy!’—­well that’ll do, Mr Daly; go on—­’enticing away from her home!’—­that’s good, when the blackguard nearly knocked the life out of her, and mother brought her down here, from downright charity, and to prevent murdher—­’wake intellects!’—­well, Mr Daly, I didn’t expect this kind of thing from you:  begorra, I thought you were above this!—­wake intellects! faith, they’re a dale too sthrong, and too good—­and too wide awake too, for Barry to get the betther of her that way.  Not that I’m in the laist in life surprised at anything he’d do; but I thought that you, Mr Daly, wouldn’t put your hands to such work as that.”

Daly felt the rebuke, and felt it strongly, too; but now that he was embarked in the business, he must put the best face he could upon it.  Still it was a moment or two before he could answer the young farmer.

“Why,” he said—­“why did you put your hands to such a dirty job as this, Martin?—­you were doing well, and not in want—­and how could you let anyone persuade you to go and sell yourself to, an ugly ould maid, for a few hundred pounds?  Don’t you know, that if you were married to her this minute, you’d have a lawsuit that’d go near to ruin you before you could get possession of the property?”