“I think it is, my boy,” said he; “from whom did it come, do you know?”

The lad, instead of giving him any reply, took instantly to his heels, as if he had been pursued for life and death, without even waiting to solicit the gratuity which is usually expected on such occasions.  Our friend took it for granted that it had come from the fortune-teller, Ginty Cooper; but on opening it he perceived at a glance that he must have been mistaken, as the writing most certainty was not that of this extraordinary sibyl.  The hand in which she had written his name was precisely such as one would expect from such a woman—­rude and vulgar —­whereas, on the contrary, that in the note was elegant and lady-like.  The contents were as follows: 

“Sir,—­On receipt of this you will, if you wish to prosper in that which you have undertaken to accomplish, hasten to Ballytrain, and secure the person of a young man named Fenton, who lives in or about the town.  You will claim him as the lawful heir of the title and property of Red Hall, for such in fact he is.  Go then to Sir Thomas Gourlay, and ask him the following questions: 

“1st.  Did he not one night, about sixteen years ago, engage a man who was so ingeniously masked that the child neither perceived the mask, nor knew the man’s person, to lure, him from Red Hall, under the pretence of bringing him to see a puppet show?

“2d.  Did not Sir Thomas give instructions to this man to take him out of his path, out of his sight, and out of his hearing?

“3d.  Was not this man well rewarded by Sir Thomas for that act?

“There are other questions in connection with the affair that could he put, but at present they would be unseasonable.  The curtain of this dark drama is beginning to rise; truth will, ere long, be vindicated, justice rendered to the defrauded orphan, and guilt punished.

“A Lover of Justice.”

It is very difficult to describe the feelings with which the stranger perused this welcome but mysterious document.  To him, it was one of great pleasure, and also of exceedingly great pain.  Here was something like a clew, to the discovery which he was so deeply interested in making.  But, then, at whose expense was this discovery to be made?  He was betrothed to Lucy Gourlay, and here he was compelled by a sense of justice to drag her father forth to public exposure, as a criminal of the deepest dye.  What would Lucy say to this?  What would she say to the man who should entail the heavy ignominy with which a discovery of this atrocious crime must blacken her father’s name.  He knew the high and proud principles by which she was actuated, and he knew how deeply the disgrace of a guilty parent would affect her sensitive spirit.  Yet what was he to do?  Was the iniquity of this ambitious and bad man to deprive the virtuous and benevolent woman—­the friend of the poor and destitute, the loving mother, the affectionate wife who had enshrined her departed husband in the