As he drove down the street of Dunmore, he endeavoured to quiet his conscience, by reflecting that he might still do much to guard Anty from the ill effects of her brother’s rapacity; and that at any rate he would not see her property taken from her, though she might be frightened out of her matrimonial speculation.
He wanted to see the widow, Martin, and Anty, and if possible to see them, at first, separately; and fortune so far favoured him that, as he got off the car, he saw our hero standing at the inn door.
“Ah! Mr Daly,” said he, coming up to the car and shaking hands with the attorney, for Daly put out his hand to him—“how are you again?—I suppose you’re going up to the house? They say you’re Barry’s right hand man now. Were you coming into the inn?”
“Why, I will step in just this minute; but I’ve a word I want to spake to you first.”
“To me!” said Martin.
“Yes, to you, Martin Kelly: isn’t that quare?” and then he gave directions to the driver to put up the horse, and bring the car round again in an hour’s time. “D’ you remember my telling you, the day we came into Dunmore on the car together, that I was going up to the house?”
“Faith I do, well; it’s not so long since.”
“And do you mind my telling you, I didn’t know from Adam what it was for, that Barry Lynch was sending for me?”
“And I remember that, too.”
“And that I tould you, that when I did know I shouldn’t tell you?”
“Begad you did, Mr Daly; thim very words.”
“Why then, Martin, I tould you what wasn’t thrue, for I’m come all the way from Tuam, this minute, to tell you all about it.”
Martin turned very red, for he rightly conceived that when an attorney came all the way from Tuam to talk to him, the tidings were not likely to be agreeable.