Cashel could scarcely avoid a smile at the rapidity with which the lawyer detailed his plan of operation, and threw out, as he went, the signs of distrust so characteristic of his craft As for himself, he was enjoined to remain in the very strictest privacy,--to see no one, nor even to leave the house, except after nightfall. “Rely upon it,” said Hammond, “your every movement is watched; and our object will be to ascertain by whom. This will be our first clew; and when we obtain one, others will soon follow.” It was no privation for Cashel to follow a course so much in accordance with his wishes. Solitude--even that which consigned him to the saddest reveries--was far more pleasurable than any intercourse; so that he never ventured beyond the walls of his house for weeks, nor exchanged a word, except with Hammond, who regularly visited him each day, to report the progress of his investigation. The mystery did not seem to clear away, even by the skilful contrivances of the lawyer. Of Keane not a trace could be discovered; nor could any clew be obtained as to his companion. All that Hammond knew was that although a doctor's carriage daily drove to Linton's house, Linton himself had long since left the country,--it was believed for the Continent. Disappointed by continual failures, and wearied by a life whose only excitement lay in anxieties and cares, Cashel grew each day sadder and more depressed. The desire for vengeance, too, that first had filled his mind, grew weaker as time rolled on. The wish to reinstate himself fully in the world's esteem diminished, as he lived apart from all its intercourse, and he sank into a low and gloomy despondency, which soon showed its ravages upon his face and figure. One object alone remained for him,--this was to seek out Corrigan and place in his hand the document of his ancestor's pardon; this done, Roland resolved to betake himself to Mexico, and again, among the haunts of his youth, to try and forget that life of civilization which had cost him so dearly. CHAPTER XXXIII. LA NINETTA “How sweete and lovely dost thou make the shame Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose, Doth spot the beautie of thy budding name.” Some years passed over, and the name of Roland Cashel ceased to be uttered, or his memory even evoked, in that capital where once his wealth, his eccentricities, and his notoriety had been the theme of every tongue. A large neglected-looking house, with closed shutters and grass-grown steps, would attract the attention of some passing stranger to ask whom it belonged to, but the name of Mr. Cashel was almost all that many knew of him, and a vague impression that he was travelling in some remote and faraway land.