In a few days afterwards the worthy priest, finding, on inquiry, that Sir Thomas had gone to Dublin, where, it was said, he determined to reside for some time, made up his mind to follow him, in order to restore him the property he had lost.  This, however, was not the sole purpose of his visit to the metropolis.  The letter he had given the stranger to Corbet, or Dunphy, had not, he was sorry to find, been productive of the object for which it had been written.  Perhaps it was impossible that it could; but still the good priest, who was as shrewd in many things as he was benevolent and charitable in all, felt strongly impressed with a belief that this old man was not wholly ignorant, or rather unconnected with the disappearance of either one or the other of the lost children.  Be this, however, as it may, he prepared to see the baronet for the purpose already mentioned.

He accordingly took his place—­an inside one—­in the redoubtable “Fly,” which, we may add, was the popular vehicle at the time, and wrapping himself up in a thick frieze cloak, or great coat, with standing collar that buttoned up across his face to the very eyes, and putting a shirt or two, and some other small matters, into a little bundle—­tying, at the same time, a cotton kerchief over his hat and chin—­he started on his visit to the metropolis, having very much the appearance of a determined character, whose dress and aspect were not, however, such as to disarm suspicion.  He felt much more careful of the baronet’s pocket-book than he did of his own, and contrived to place it in an inside pocket, which being rather small for it, he was obliged to rip a little in order to give it admittance.  The case of pistols he slipped into the pockets of his jock, one in each, without ever having once examined them, or satisfied himself—­simple man—­as to whether they were loaded or not.  His own pocket-book was carelessly placed in the right-hand pocket of the aforesaid jock, along with one of the pistols.

The night was agreeable, and nothing worth recording took place until
they had come about five miles on the side of ------, when a loud voice
ordered the coachman to stop.

“Stop the coach, sir!” said the voice, with a good deal of reckless and bitter expression in it; “stop the coach, or you are a dead man.”

Several pistols were instantly leveled at both coachman and guard, and the same voice, which was thin, distinct, and wiry, proceeded—­“Keep all steady now, boys, and shoot the first that attempts to move.  I will see what’s to be had inside.”

He went immediately to the door of the “Fly,” and opening it, held up a dark lantern, which, whilst it clearly showed him the dress, countenances, and condition of the passengers, thoroughly concealed his own.

The priest happened to be next him, and was consequently the first person on whom this rather cool demand was made.

“Come, sir,” said the highwayman, “fork out, if you please; and be quick about it, if you’re wise.”