mind to dispense with them."

"Well," answered Barry, as he followed the attorney downstairs, "I
can't understand what you're about; but I suppose you must be right;"
and they went into the little parlour where Moylan was sitting.

Moylan and Barry Lynch had only met once, since the former had been
entrusted to receive Anty's rents, on which occasion Moylan had been
grossly insulted by her brother. Barry, remembering the meeting, felt
very awkward at the idea of entering into amicable conversation with
him, and crept in at the door like a whipped dog. Moylan was too old
to feel any such compunctions, and consequently made what he intended
to be taken as a very complaisant bow to his future patron. He was
an ill-made, ugly, stumpy man, about fifty; with a blotched face,
straggling sandy hair, and grey shaggy whiskers. He wore a long brown
great coat, buttoned up to his chin, and this was the only article of
wearing apparel visible upon him: in his hands he twirled a shining new
four-and-fourpenny hat.

As soon as their mutual salutations were over, Daly commenced his
business.

"There is no doubt in the world, Mr Lynch," said he, addressing Barry,
"that a most unfair attempt has been made by this family to get
possession of your sister's property--a most shameful attempt, which
the law will no doubt recognise as a misdemeanour. But I think we shall
be able to stop their game without any law at all, which will save
us the annoyance of putting Mr Moylan here, and other respectable
witnesses, on the table. Mr Moylan says that very soon afther your
father's will was made known--"

"Now, Mr Daly--shure I niver said a word in life at all about the
will," said Moylan, interrupting him.

"No, you did not: I mane, very soon afther you got the agency--"

"Divil a word I said about the agency, either."

"Well, well; some time ago--he says that, some time ago, he and Martin
Kelly were talking over your sister's affairs; I believe the widow was
there, too."

"Ah, now, Mr Daly--why'd you be putting them words into my mouth?
sorrow a word of the kind I iver utthered at all."

"What the deuce was it you did say, then?"

"Faix, I don't know that I said much, at all."

"Didn't you say, Mr Moylan, that Martin Kelly was talking to you about
marrying Anty, some six weeks ago?"

"Maybe I did; he was spaking about it."

"And, if you were in the chair now, before a jury, wouldn't you swear
that there was a schame among them to