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Mr. Quirk was no longer goring spiders' webs; he was now attacking a solid and substantial subject nothing less than the condition of the British army; and a pretty poor opinion he seemed to have of it. Quirk had it all his way except when Maurice Mangan thought it worth while to give him a cuff or a kick, just by way of reminding him that he was mortal.
The nurse said she was afraid he had not been asleep at all, though occasionally he had appeared to be asleep. When the doctor left again, she was sent to bed, and Maurice Mangan took her place in the sitting-room. That was an extraordinary Sunday, long to be remembered. Anything more hopelessly dismal than the outlook from those Piccadilly windows it was impossible to imagine.
Her secret must be kept, and she must not anger him further. "Perhaps, Mr. Mangan, if you came with me to my rooms, and saw my old " she paused, then added softly, "the old woman I live with, and I showed you where the box is always kept and the way the door opens, perhaps you could help us to find out how it could have happened." Mangan rose and pushed back his chair.
Mangan, italicising, in her indignation, every second word, "and for goodness' sake, go on and tell me what was the argument you said you had?" "My dear, I couldn't go into it properly now. I'll tell you another time. I'm bound to go, and as quick as I can too! Run now, like a good girl, and tell Barty or Mike to get the car ready in a hurry.
Maurice he found in charge of a bewildering number of variously sized packages, which seemed to cause him some anxiety, for there was no sort of proper cohesion among them. "Toys for Francie's children, I'll bet," said Lionel. "Well, how otherwise could I show my gratitude?" Mangan said.
Now, as it is barely possible that some of the readers of this volume may be in a condition of similar ignorance, it is well to mention that Clarence Mangan was an Irish poet who was dear to the generation which saw the rise of the Young Ireland movement during O'Connell's later years, and that the dark Rosaleen whom Mangan found in the earlier poet's ballad is supposed to typify his native country.
He seemed during the last few minutes to have been wrapped in a brown study. "Mangan," he asked a little abruptly, "is it the popular belief down here that I killed Roger Unthank?" The lawyer set down the decanter and coughed. "A plain answer," Dominey insisted. Mr. Mangan adapted himself to the situation. He was beginning to understand his client.
He brushed upright with the palm of his hand one of those little tufts of hair left on the side of his head, and he laid his plump fingers upon the lawyer's shoulder. "Mr. Mangan," he said, "you listen to me. I sell this man the controlling interests in a mine, shares which I have held for four and a half years and never drew a penny dividend. I sell them to him, I say, at par.
If you stay here this night, Squire, come over and sleep in the little room they've got ready for you on the other side of the house." Mr. Mangan had lost his smooth, after-dinner appearance. His face was rumpled, and his coffee was growing cold.
"If you can kill the partridges which Middleton is going to send over in the next ten minutes," he said, "you could shoot anything of the sort that comes along in East Africa, with a catapult. If you will stand just a few paces there to the left, Henry, Terniloff by the gate, Stillwell up by the left-hand corner, Mangan next, Eddy next, and I shall be just beyond towards the oak clump.
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