When the conversation had reached this point, the old woman called her husband down in a voice that seemed somewhat agitated, but not, as far as he could guess, disagreeably.

“Denis, come down a minute,” she said, “come down, will you? here’s a stranger that you haven’t seen for some time.”

“What stranger?” he inquired, peevishly.  “Who is it?  I wish you wouldn’t bother me—­I’m talkin’ with a gentleman.”

“It’s Ginty.”

“Ginty, is it?” said he, musing.  “Well, that’s odd, too—­to think that she should come at this very moment.  Maybe, the hand of G—.  I beg your pardon, sir, for a minute or two—­I’ll be back immediately.”

He went down stairs, and found in the back parlor the woman named Ginty Cooper, the same fortune-teller and prophetess whom we have already described to the reader.

The old man seemed to consider her appearance not as an incident that stirred up any natural affection in himself, but as one that he looked upon as extraordinary.  Indeed, to tell the truth, he experienced a sensation of surprise, mingled with a superstitious feeling, that startled him considerably, by her unexpected appearance at that particular period.  He did not resume his conversation with the stranger for at least twenty minutes; but the latter was perfectly aware, from the earnestness of their voices, although their words were not audible, that he and the new-comer were discussing some topic in which they must have felt a very deep interest.  At length he came up and apologized for the delay, adding:  “With regard to this business, it’s altogether out of my power to give you any assistance.  I have nothing but my suspicions, and it wouldn’t be the part of a Christian to lay a crime like that to any man’s door upon mere guess.”

“If you know anything of this dark transaction,” replied the stranger, whose earnestness of manner was increased by his disappointment, as well as by an impression that the old man knew more about it than he was disposed to admit, “and will not enable us to render justice to the wronged and defrauded orphan, you will have a heavy reckoning of it—­an awful one when you meet your God.  By the usual course of nature that is a reckoning that must soon be made.  I advise you, therefore, not to tamper with your own conscience, nor, by concealing your knowledge of this great crime to peril your hopes of eternal happiness.  Of one thing you may rest assured, that the justice we seek will not stoop to those who have been merely instruments in the hands of others.”

“That’s all very fine talk,” replied Dunphy, uneasily however, “and from the high-flown language you give me, I take you to be a lawyer; but if you were ten times a lawyer, and a judge to the back of that, a man can’t tell what he doesn’t know.”

“Mark me,” replied the stranger, assailing him through his cupidity, “I pledge you my solemn word that for any available information you may or can give us you shall be most liberally and amply remunerated.”