“But Linton may, for his own reasons, think differently here; his proposal to marry seems as though it were part of some settled plan; and if you have already given him a legal claim here, my opinion is that he will uphold it.” “That I have never done; but my word is pledged, and to it he may hold me, if he will. Meanwhile, I have seen Kennyfeck this morning. The man Hoare has offered us a large sum on mortgage, and I have promised to meet them both the day after to-morrow. If I read Tom aright, £10,000 will free me from every claim he has upon me.” “A heavy sum, but not ill spent if it liberate you from his friendship,” cried Tiernay, eagerly. “And so it shall.” “You promise me this--you give me your word upon it?” “I do.” “Then there are good days in store for you. That man's intimacy has been your bane; even when you thought least of it, his influence swayed your actions and perverted your motives. Under the shadow of his evil counsels your judgment grew warped and corrupted; you saw all things in a false and distorted light; and your most fatal error of all was, that you deemed yourself a 'gentleman.'” “I have done with him forever,” said Cashel, with slow, deliberate utterance. “Again I say, good days are in store for you,” said Tiernay. “I cannot live a life of daily, hourly distrust,” said Cashel; “nor will I try it. I will see him to-morrow; I will tell him frankly that I am weary of his fashionable protectorate; that as a scholar in modish tastes I should never do him credit, and that we must part. Our alliance was ever a factitious one; it will not be hard to sever it.” “You mistake much,” said Tiernay; “the partnership will not be so easily relinquished by him who reaps all the profit.” “You read me only as a dupe,” said Cashel, fiercely. Tiernay made no reply, but waving his hand in adieu, left the room. CHAPTER XXII. LINTON INSTIGATES KEANE TO MURDER Hell's eloquence--“Temptation!” Harold Tom Keane, the gatekeeper, sat moodily at his door on the morning after the events recorded in our last chapter. His reflections seemed of the gloomiest, and absorbed him so completely that he never noticed the mounted groom, who, despatched to seek the doctor for Lord Kilgoff, twice summoned him in vain to open the gate. “Halloa!” cried the smartly equipped servant, “stupid! will you open that gate, I say?” “It 's not locked,” said Tom, looking up, but without the slightest indication of obeying the request. “Don't you see the mare won't stand?” cried he, with an oath. Tom smoked away without replying. “Sulky brute you are!” cried the groom; “I 'm glad we 're to see the last of you soon.” With this he managed to open the gate and pass on his way. “So it's for turnin' me out yez are,” said Tom to himself; “turnin' me out on the road--to starve, or maybe--to rob”--(these words were uttered between the puffs of his tobacco-smoke)--“after forty years in the same place.”