“You haven’t promised that?” “But I have, though. We can do nothing without it: it was only when I hinted that, that the old sinner came round.” “But what the deuce is it he’s to do for us, after all?” “He’s to allow us to put him forward as a bugbear, to frighten the Kellys with: that’s all, and, if we can manage that, that’s enough. But come down now. I only wanted to warn you that, if you think the agency is too high a price to pay for the man’s services, whatever they may be, you must make up your 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.”