“I am an Irishman, my lord.”

“Of course, sir, I make no inquiry as to your individual family.  I am sure from what I have seen of you they must have been, and are, persons of worth and consideration; but I wished to ask if the name be a numerous one in Ireland, or rather, in your part of it—­Connaught?”

“Numerous, my lord, no, not very numerous, but of the first respectability.”

“Pray, is your father living, Mr. Norton?  If he be, why don’t you bring him among us?  And if you have any brother, I need scarcely say what pleasure it would afford me, having, as you are aware, I presume, some influence with ministers, to do anything I could for him, should he require it; probably in the shape of a foreign appointment, or something that way.  Anything, Mr. Norton, to repay a portion of what is due to you by my family.”

“I thank your lordship,” replied Tom.  “My poor father was, as too many other Irish gentlemen have been, what is termed a hard goer (the honest man was a horse jockey like myself, thought Tom)—­and indeed ran through a great deal of property during the latter part of his life (when he was huntsman to Lord Rattlecap, he went through many an estate).”

“Well, but your brother?”

“Deeply indebted, my lord, but I have no brother living.  Poor Edward did get a foreign appointment many years ago (he was transported for horse stealing), by the influence of one of the most eminent of our judges, who strongly advised him to accept it, and returned his name to government as a worthy and suitable candidate.  He died there, my lord, in the discharge of his appointed duties.  Poor Ned, however, was never fond of public business under government, and, indeed, accepted the appointment in question with great reluctance.”

“The reason why I made these inquiries about the name of Norton,” said Lord Cullamore, “is this.  There was, several years ago, a respectable female of the name, who held a confidential situation in my family; I have long lost sight of her, however, and would be glad to know whether she is living or dead.”

("My sister-in-law,” thought Tom.) “I fear,” he replied, “I can render you no information on that point, my lord; the last female branch of our part of the family was my grandmother, who died about three years ago.”

At this moment a servant entered the apartment, bearing in his hand a letter, for which office he had received a bribe of half-a-crown.  “I beg pardon, my lord, but there’s a woman at the hall-door, who wishes this letter to be handed to that gentleman; but I fear there’s some mistake,” he added, “it is directed to Barney Bryan.  She insists he is here, and that she saw him come into the house.”

“Barney Bryan,” said Tom, with great coolness; “show me the letter, for I think I know something about it.  Yes, I am right.  It is an insane woman, my lord, wife to a jockey of mine, who broke his neck riding my celebrated horse, Black and all Black, on the Curragh.  The poor creature cannot believe that her husband is dead, and thinks that I enjoy that agreeable privilege.  The circumstance, indeed, was a melancholy one; but I have supported her ever since.”