“I scarcely know,” replied the other.  “I must lie quiet for a while, at any rate.”

“Do so,” said Reilly; “and listen, Fergus.  See Paudeen, the smith, from time to time, and get whatever he knows out of him.  His father was a tenant of ours, and he ought to remember our kindness to him and his.”

“Ay,” said Fergus, “and he does too.”

“Well, it is clear he does.  Get from him all the information you can, and let me hear it.  I would give you shelter in my house, but that now would be dangerous both to you and me.  Do you want money to support you?”

“Well, indeed, Mr. Reilly, I do and I do not.  I can—­”

“That’s enough,” said Reilly; “you want it.  Here, take this.  I would recommend you, as I did before, to leave this unhappy country; but as circumstances have turned out, you may for some time yet be useful to me.  Good-night, then, Fergus.  Serve me in this matter as far as you can, for I stand in need of it.”

As nothing like an organized police existed in Ireland at the period of which we speak, an outlaw or Rapparee might have a price laid upon his head for months—­nay, for years—­and yet continue his outrages and defy the executive.  Sometimes it happened that the authorities, feeling the weakness of their resources and the inadequacy of their power, did not hesitate to propose terms to the leaders of these banditti, and, by affording them personal protection, succeeded in inducing them to betray their former associates.  Now Reilly was well aware of this, and our readers need not be surprised that the communication made to him by his kinsman filled him not only with anxiety but alarm.  A very slight charge indeed brought forward by a man of rank and property—­such a charge, for instance, as the possession of firearms—­was quite sufficient to get a Roman Catholic banished the country.

On the third evening after this our friend Tom Steeple was met by its proprietor in the avenue leading to Corbo Castle.

“Well, Tom,” said the squire, “are you for the Big House?” for such is the general term applied to all the ancestral mansions of the country.

Tom stopped and looked at him—­for we need scarcely observe here that with poor Tom there was no respect of persons; he then shook his head and replied, “Me don’t know whether you tall or not.  Tom tall—­will Tom go to Big House—­get bully dinnel—­and Tom sleep under the stairs—­eh?  Say aye, an’ you be tall too.”

“To be sure, Tom; go into the house, and your cousin Larry Lanigan, the cook, will give you a bully dinner; and sleep where you like.”

The squire walked up and down the avenue in a thoughtful mood for some moments until another of our characters met him on his way towards the entrance gate.  This person was no other than Molly Mahon.

“Ha!” said he, “here is another of them—­well, poor devils, they must live.  This, though, is the great fortune-teller.  I will try her.”