“I have money enough,” replied Dunphy; “that is to say, as much as barely does me, for the wealthiest of us cannot bring it to the grave.  I’m thankful to you, but I can give you no assistance.”

“Whom do you suspect, then?—­whom do you even suspect?”

“Hut!—­why, the man that every one suspects—­Sir Thomas Gourlay.”

“And upon what grounds, may I ask?”

“Why, simply because no other man had any interest in getting the child removed.  Every one knows he’s a dark, tyrannical, bad man, that wouldn’t be apt to scruple at anything.  There now,” he added, “that is all I know about it; and I suppose it’s not more than you knew yourself before.”

In order to close the dialogue he stood up, and at once led the way down to the back parlor, where the stranger, on following him, found Ginty Cooper and the old woman in close conversation, which instantly ceased when they made their appearance.

The stranger, chagrined and vexed at his want of success, was about to depart, when Dunphy’s wife said: 

“Maybe, sir, you’d wish to get your fortune tould? bekaise, if you would, here’s a woman that will tell it to you, and you may depend upon it she’ll tell you nothing but the truth.”

“I am not in a humor for such nonsense, my good woman; I have much more important matters to think of, I assure you; but I suppose the woman wishes to have her hand crossed with silver; well, it shall be done.  Here, my good woman,” he said offering her money, “accept this, and spare your prophecy.”

“I will not have your money, sir,” replied the prophetess; “and I say so to let you know that I’m not an impostor.  Be advised, and hear me—­show me your hand.”

The startling and almost supernatural appearance of the woman struck him very forcibly, and with a kind of good-humored impatience, he stretched out his hand to her.  “Well,” said he, “I will test the truth of what you promise.”

She took it into hers, and after examining the lines for a few seconds said, “The lines in your hand, sir, are very legible—­so much so that I can read your name in it—­and it’s a name which very few in this country know.”

The stranger started with astonishment, and was about to speak, but she signed to him to be silent.

“You are in love,” she continued, “and your sweetheart loves you dearly.  You saw her this morning, and you would give a trifle to know where she will be to-morrow.  You traveled with her last night and didn’t know it—­and the business that brought you to town will prosper.”

“You say you know my name,” replied the stranger, “if so, write it on a slip of paper.”

She hesitated a moment.

“Will it do,” she asked, “if I give you the initials?”

“No,” he replied, “the name in full—­and I think you are fairly caught.”

She gave no reply, but having got a slip of paper and a pen, went to the wall and knocked three times, repeating some unintelligible words with an appearance of great solemnity and mystery.  Having knocked, she applied her ear to the wall three times also, after which she seemed satisfied.