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"My good fellow," he said, "you are talking like a lunatic! I think you must have got a touch of sun." A faint smile flickered over Duncannon's set face. "No, it isn't that," he said. "It's a touch of something else something you wouldn't understand." "But heavens above! you have no choice!" Herne exclaimed, rising abruptly. "You can't say you'll do this or that.
"Who succeeds us?" he asked at length. Herne shrugged his shoulders. "You don't know?" There was sudden, sharp anxiety in Duncannon's voice. He got off the table with a jerk. "You must know," he said. Herne sat motionless, but he no longer looked the other in the face. "You've taught 'em to fight," he said slowly. "They are men enough to look after themselves now." "What?"
He would have to go back, even though it meant to his destruction, unless this Mad Prophet could furnish him with proof incontestable of young Duncannon's death. He glanced with impatience towards the entrance. Why did the man delay? He supposed the fellow would want backsheesh, and that thought sent him searching among his tattered clothing for his pocket-book.
The first house on the side street that ran at right angles to the main thoroughfare, just below Rafferty's, was Duncannon's. A picket fence at the side let into the vegetable gardens of the three, and the quiet little Mrs.
Lardner, had set him in the interests of the 'Cabinet Encyclopædia' an enterprise to which men of the calibre of Mackintosh, Southey, Herschell, and even Walter Scott had lent a helping hand. Lord John landed in Ireland in the beginning of September 1833, and went first to Lord Duncannon's place at Bessborough.
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