All this, however, could not free him from the deep and deadly conviction that the friends of his brother’s widow were on his trail, and that it required the whole united powers of his faculties for deception, able and manifold as they were, to check his pursuers and throw them off the scent.  It was now, too, that his indignation against his daughter and him who had seduced her from his roof began to deepen in his heart.  Had he succeeded in seeing her united to Lord Dunroe, previous to any exposure of himself—­supposing even that discovery was possible—­his end, the great object of his life, was, to a certain extent, gained.  Now, however, that that hope was out of the question, and treachery evidently at work against him, he felt that gloom, disappointment, shame, and ruin were fast gathering round him.  He was, indeed, every way hemmed in and hampered.  It was clear that this stranger was not a man to be either cajoled or bullied.  He read a spirit—­a sparkle—­in his eye, which taught him that the brutality inflicted upon the unfortunate Crackenfudge, and such others as he knew he might trample on, would never do here.

As matters stood, however, he thought the only chance of throwing the stranger off his guard was to take him by a coup de main.  With this purpose, he went over, and sitting down to his desk before the drawer that contained his pistols, thus placing himself between the stranger and the door, he turned upon him a look as stern and determined as he could possibly assume; and we must remark here, that he omitted no single consideration connected with the subject he was about to introduce that was calculated to strengthen his determination.

“Now, sir,” said he, “in the first place, may I take the liberty of asking where you have concealed my daughter?  I will have no equivocation, sir,” he added, raising his voice—­“no evasion, no falsehood, but in one plain word, or in as many as may be barely necessary, say where you have concealed Miss Gourlay.”

“Sir Thomas Gourlay,” replied the other, “I can understand your feelings upon this subject, and I can overlook much that you may say in connection with it; but neither upon that nor any other, can I permit the imputation of falsehood against myself.  You are to observe this, sir, and to forbear the repetition of such an insult.  My reply is brief and candid:  I know not where Miss Gourlay is, upon my honor as a gentleman.”

“Do you mean to tell me, sir, that you and she did not elope in the same coach on Tuesday night last?”

“I do, sir; and I beg to tell you, that such a suspicion is every way unworthy of your daughter.”

“Take care, sir; you were seen together in Dublin.”

“That is true.  I had the honor of travelling in the same coach with her to the metropolis; but I was altogether unconscious of being her fellow-traveller until we arrived in Dublin.  A few brief words of conversation I had with her in the coach, but nothing more.”