“Well, then,” said Sir Robert, “I have no more silver, and so I leave you to the agreeable society of Robinson Crusoe.” Reilly had watched Sir Robert's motions, as well as his countenance, in a manner as furtively as possible. Sometimes, indeed, he stared at him broadly, and with a stupid, oafish look, and again placed himself in such a position behind the range of flower-pots which were placed upon the ledges, that he could observe him without being perceived himself. The force of habit, however, is extraordinary. Our hero was a man exceedingly remarkable for personal cleanliness, and consequently made a point to wash his hands morning and evening with peculiar care. Be this as it may, the lynx eye of Sir Robert observed their whiteness, and he instantly said to himself, “This is no common laborer; I know that he is not, from the whiteness of his hands. Besides, he is disguised; it is evident from the length of his beard, and the unnecessary coarseness of his apparel. Then his figure, the symmetry and size of which no disguise can conceal; this, and everything else, assures me that he is disguised, and that he is, besides, no other individual than the man I want, William Reilly, who has been hitherto my evil genius; but it shall go hard with me, or I shall be his now.” Such were his meditations as he passed along with the squire to join him at lunch. When they had left the garden, Reilly addressed his _Cooleen Bawn_ as follows: “Helen, I am discovered.” “Discovered! O my God, no!” “Unquestionably, there is no doubt of it; it is certain.” “But how do you know that it is certain?” “Because I observed that Whitecraft's eyes were never off my hands; he knew that a common laborer could not possibly have such hands. Helen, I am discovered, and must fly.” “But you know that there is a change of Administration, and that the severity of the laws has been relaxed against Catholics.” “Yes, you told me so, and I have no fear for myself; but what I apprehend is that this discovery, of which I feel certain, will precipitate your marriage with that miscreant; they will entrap you into it, and then I am miserable for ever.” “Then, William, we must fly this very night; we will proceed to the Continent, to some Protestant state, where we can get married without any danger to the clergyman who may unite us.” “It is all that is left for us,” replied Reilly; “I should sooner lose life than you, my beloved Helen; and now, what is to be done? fly we must; and in anticipation of the necessity of this step I left a suit of clothes with Lanigan: or rather with a poor widow, who was a pensioner of mine--a Mrs. Buckley, from whom Lanigan got them, and has them. I could not think of accompanying you in this vile dress. On your way in, try to see Lanigan, and desire him to come out to me. There is not a moment to be lost; and, my dear Helen, show no marks of agitation; be calm and firm, or we are undone.”