Meanwhile, McCloskey had poured himself out a glass of brandy and water, which he stood sipping as coolly as if everything in the apartment was in a state of the most perfect composure.  The singular terror of her father, and the boldness and assurance of the intruder, were to Miss Stevens something inexplicable—­she stood looking from one to the other, as though seeking an explanation, and on observing symptoms of a return to consciousness on the part of her parent, she turned to McCloskey, and said, appealingly:  “You see how your presence has agitated my father.  Pray let me conjure you—­go.  Be your errand what it may, I promise you it shall have the earliest attention.  Or,” said she, “tell me what it is; perhaps I can see to it—­I attend a great deal to father’s business.  Pray tell me!”

“No, no!” exclaimed the old man, who had caught the last few words of his daughter.  “No, no—­not a syllable!  Here, I’m well—­I’m well enough.  I’ll attend to you.  There, there—­that will do,” he continued, addressing the servant; “leave the room.  And you,” he added, turning to his daughter, “do you go too.  I am much better now, and can talk to him.  Go! go!” he cried, impatiently, as he saw evidences of a disposition to linger, on her part; “if I want you I’ll ring.  Go!—­this person won’t stay long.”

“Not if I get what I came for, miss,” said McCloskey, insolently; “otherwise, there is no knowing how long I may stay.”  With a look of apprehension, Lizzie quitted the room, and the murderer and his accomplice were alone together.

Mr. Stevens reached across the table, drew the liquor towards him, and recklessly pouring out a large quantity, drained the glass to the bottom—­this seemed to nerve him up and give him courage, for he turned to McCloskey and said, with a much bolder air than he had yet shown in addressing him, “So, you’re back again, villain! are you?  I thought and hoped you were dead;” and he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes as if to shut out some horrid spectre.

“I’ve been divilish near it, squire, but Providence has preserved me, ye see—­jist to be a comfort to ye in yer old age.  I’ve been shipwrecked, blown up in steamboats, and I’ve had favers and choleray and the divil alone knows what—­but I’ve been marcifully presarved to ye, and hope ye’ll see a good dale of me this many years to come.”

Mr. Stevens glared at him fiercely for a few seconds, and then rejoined, “You promised me solemnly, five years ago, that you would never trouble me again, and I gave you money enough to have kept you in comfort—­ay, luxury—­for the remainder of your life.  Where is it all now?”

“That’s more than I can tell you, squire.  I only know how it comes.  I don’t trouble myself how it goes—­that’s your look out.  If ye are anxious on that score you’d better hire a bookkeeper for me—­he shall send yer honour a quarterly account, and then it won’t come on ye so sudden when it’s all out another time.”