“In this world of ours,” muttered he, “the cards we are dealt by Fortune would nearly always suffice to win, had we but skill. These people had a noble game before them, but, forsooth, they did not fancy their partner! And see what is come of it--ruin on every side!” Gloomy thoughts over his own opportunities neglected--over eventful moments left to slip by unprofitably--stole over him. Many of his late speculations had been unsuccessful; he had had heavy losses on the “turf” and the “'Change.” He had failed in promises by which menacing dangers had been long averted. His enemies would soon be upon him, and he was ill provided for the encounter. Vengeance alone, of all his aspirations, seemed to prosper; and he tried to revel in that thought as a compensation for every failure. Nor was this unmixed with fear. What if Cashel should enter upon a defence by exposing the events of that last night at Tubbermore? What if he should produce the forged deed in open court? Who was to say that Enrique himself might not be forthcoming to prove his falsehood? Again: how far could he trust Tom Keane? might not the fellow's avarice suggest a tyranny impossible to endure? Weighty considerations were these, and full of their own peril. Linton paused beside the lake to ruminate, and for some time was deep buried in thought A light rustling sound at last aroused him; he looked up, and perceived, directly in front of him, the very man of whom he was thinking--Tom Keane himself. Both stood still, each fixedly regarding the other without speaking. It seemed a game in which he who made the first move should lose. So, certainly, did Linton feel; but not so Tom Keane, who, with an easy composure that all the other's “breeding” could not compass, said,-- “Well, sir, I hope you like your work?” “_My_ work! _my_ work! How can you call it _mine_, my good friend?” replied Linton, with a great effort to appear as much at ease as the other. “Just as ould Con Corrigan built the little pier we're standin' on this minit, though his own hands did n't lay a stone of it.” “There's no similarity between the cases whatever,” said Linton, with a well-feigned laugh. “Here there was a plan--an employer--hired laborers engaged to perform a certain task.” “Well, well,” broke in Keane, impatiently; “sure we're not in 'Coort,' that you need make a speech. 'T was your own doing: deny it if you like, but don't drive me to prove it.” The tone of menace in which these words were uttered was increased by the fact, now for the first time apparent to Linton, that Tom Keane had been drinking freely that morning, and was still under the strong excitement of liquor.