“As the matter stands, then,” replied Birney, “we shall be obliged, to go to France in order to get a fresh copy of the death and the marriage properly attested—­or, I should rather say, of the marriage and the death.  This will complete our documentary evidence; but, unfortunately, Mrs. Norton, who was her maid at the time, and a witness of both the death and marriage, cannot be found, although she was seen in Dublin about three months ago.  I have advertised several times for her in the papers, but to no purpose.  I cannot find her whereabouts at all.  I fear, however, and so does the Attorney-General, that we shall not be able to accomplish our purpose without her.”

“That is unfortunate,” replied the stranger.  “Let us continue the advertisements; perhaps she may turn up yet.  As to the other pursuit, touching the lost child, I know not what to say.  There are but slight grounds for hope, and yet I am not at all disposed to despair, although I cannot tell why.”

“It cannot be possible,” observed Bimey, “that that wicked old baronet could ultimately prosper in his villainy.  I speak, of course, upon the supposition that he is, or was, the bottom of the business.  Your, safest and best plan is to find out his agents in the business, if it can be done.”

“I shall leave nothing unattempted,” replied the other; “and if we fail, we shall at least have the satisfaction of having done our duty.  The lapse of time, however, is against us;—­perhaps the agents are dead.”

“If this man is guilty,” said the attorney, “he is nothing more nor less than a modern Macbeth.  However, go on, and keep up your resolution; effort will do much.  I hope in this case—­in both cases—­it will do all.”

After some further conversation upon the matter in question, which it is not our intention to detail here, the stranger made an excursion to the country, and returned about six o’clock to his hotel.  Here he found Dandy Dulcimer before him, evidently brimful of some important information on which he (Dandy) seemed to place a high value, and which gave to his naturally droll countenance such an expression of mock gravity as was ludicrous in the extreme.

“What is the matter, sir?” asked his master; “you look very big and important just now.  I hope you have not been drinking.”

Dandy compressed his lips as if his master’s fate depended upon his words, and pointing with his forefinger in the direction of Wicklow, replied: 

“The deed is done, sir—­the deed is done.”

“What deed, sirra?”

“Weren’t you tould the stuff that was in me?” he replied.  “But God has gifted me, and sure that’s one comfort, glory be to his name.  Weren’t—­”

“Explain yourself, sir!” said his master, authoritatively.  “What do you mean by the deed is done?’ You haven’t got married, I hope.  Perhaps the cousin you went to see was your sweetheart?”

“No, sir, I haven’t got married.  God keep me a little while longer from sich a calamity?  But I have put you in the way of being so.”