decay. Had I not
known his honour to be a wealthy man, I should have supposed him an
impecunious person with no income to maintain his property. As it was,
there was some other cause to seek, and that cause I set down to the
absence of Miss Kit.

Twice between the pier and the house I was challenged by sentries, and
when I reached the door I noticed that the lower windows were shuttered
and barred like those of a prison.

I announced myself to the servant who answered my summons as I had done
to the sentinels, without giving my name, and was presently shown into
his honour's room at the back of the house, which, as all the shutters
were closed, was lit by candles, though it was still daylight.

I was shocked to see how Mr Gorman was changed. The sly, surly
expression had given place to a hunted, suspicious look. His face was
haggard and pale and his beard unkempt. He started at any little sound,
and his mouth, once firm, now looked weak and irresolute. Worse still,
there was a flavour of spirits about the room and the man which told its
own tale, and accounted for his bloodshot eyes and shaking fingers as he
looked up.

"Gallagher!" he exclaimed, rising to his feet in evident panic; "what
brings you here in this disguise? What have I ever done to you?"

"It is no disguise, your honour," said I, in as reassuring a tone as I
could assume. "I am Lieutenant Gallagher now."

"And what do you want here? Why do you come in this sudden way? Go
away, sir, and come when you are wanted! Where is my guard?"

And the poor man, whom the landlord at Rathmullan had well described as
broken, actually put out his trembling hand to reach a pistol that lay
on the table.

"You mistake me," said I, paying no heed to the gesture. "I came merely
on business, and if you like you can call your guard in. I've nothing
to say that they need not hear."

"You're a good fellow, Gallagher," said his honour, reassured. "I'm a
little shaken in the nerves, and your coming was so sudden. I know you
could mean no harm to your old benefactor."

It made my heart bleed to hear him talk thus miserably, and I resolved
to shorten the interview as much as I could.

"Stay and dine with me," said he, as eager to keep me now as he was to
be rid of me a minute ago; "it's lonely, night after night, with no one
to speak to and nowhere to go. You've heard, no doubt, I am a prisoner
here."

"How so, sir?"

"There's a sentence of death out