“D——­n!” exclaimed Barry, sitting bolt upright in his bed.  “Who says I object to see anybody?  Mr Armstrong, what do you go and say that for?” Mr Armstrong returned into the room.  “It’s not true.  I only want to have my bed-room to myself, while I get up.”

“For once in the way, Mr Lynch, you must manage to get up although your privacy be intruded on.  To tell you the plain truth, I will not leave you till you come downstairs with me, unless it be in the custody of a policeman.  If you will quietly dress and come downstairs with me, I trust we may be saved the necessity of troubling the police at all.”

Barry, at last, gave way, and, gradually extricating himself from the bedclothes, put his feet down on the floor, and remained sitting on the side of his bed.  He leaned his head down on his hands, and groaned inwardly; for he was very sick, and the fumes of last night’s punch still disturbed his brain.  His stockings and drawers were on; for Terry, when he put him to bed, considered it only waste of time to pull them off, for “shure wouldn’t they have jist to go on agin the next morning?”

“Don’t be particular, Mr Lynch:  never mind washing or shaving till we’re gone.  We won’t keep you long, I hope.”

“You’re very kind, I must say,” said Barry.  “I suppose you won’t object to my having a bottle of soda water?”—­and he gave a terrible tug at the bell.

“Not at all—­nor a glass of brandy in it, if you like it.  Indeed, Mr Lynch, I think that, just at present, it will be the better thing for you.”

Barry got his bottle of soda water, and swallowed about two glasses of whiskey in it, for brandy was beginning to be scarce with him; and then commenced his toilet.  He took Parson Armstrong’s hint, and wasn’t very particular about it.  He huddled on his clothes, smoothed his hair with his brush, and muttering something about it’s being their own fault, descended into the parlour, followed by Mr Armstrong.  He made a kind of bow to Lord Ballindine; took no notice of Martin, but, turning round sharp on the doctor, said: 

“Of all the false ruffians, I ever met, Colligan—­by heavens, you’re the worst!  There’s one comfort, no man in Dunmore will believe a word you say.”  He then threw himself back into the easy chair, and said, “Well, gentlemen—­well, my lord—­here I am.  You can’t say I’m ashamed to show my face, though I must say your visit is not made in the genteelest manner.”

“Mr Lynch,” said the parson, “do you remember the night Doctor Colligan knocked you down in this room?  In this room, wasn’t it, doctor?”

“Yes; in this room,” said the doctor, rather sotto voce.

“Do you remember the circumstance, Mr Lynch?”

“It’s a lie!” said Barry.

“No it’s not,” said the parson.  “If you forget it, I can call in the servant to remember so much as that for me; but you’ll find it better, Mr Lynch, to let us finish this business among ourselves.  Come, think about it.  I’m sure you remember being knocked down by the doctor.”