“Well, but I’m not much the wiser of this,” observed Norton.  “What are you at?”

“Neither am I,” replied Morty; “and as to what I’m at—­I dunna what the devil I’m at.  That’s just what I want to know.”

“Go on,” said the other, “we must have patience.  Who did this fellow turn out to be?”

“He insisted he was a relation of my own, as I tould you.”

“Who the devil cares whether he was or not!  What was he, then?”

“Ay; what was he?—­that’s what I’m askin’ you.”

“Proceed,” said Norton; “tell it your own way.”

“He said he came from the Aist Indies beyant; that he knew some members of his lordship’s family there; that he had been in Paris, and that while he was there he larned to take French lave of his masther.”

“But who was his master?”

“That he would not tell me.  However, he said he had been in Ireland for some time before, where he saw an aunt of his, that was half mad; and then he went on to tell me that he had been once at sarvice wid my masther, and that if he liked he could tell him a secret; but then, he said, it wouldn’t be worth his while, for that he would soon know it.”

“Very clear, perfectly transparent, nothing can be plainer.  What a Tipperary sphinx you are; an enigma, half man, half beast, although there is little enigma in that, it is plain enough.  In the meantime, you bog-trotting oracle, say whether you are humbugging me or not.”

“Devil a bit I’m humbuggin’ you; but proud as you sit there, you have trotted more bogs and horses than ever I did.”

“Well, never mind that, Morty.  What did this end in?”

“End in!—­why upon my conscience I don’t think it’s properly begun yet.”

“Good-by,” exclaimed Norton, rising to go, or at least pretending to do so.  “Many thanks in the meantime for your information—­it is precious, invaluable.”

“Well, now, wait a minute.  A few days ago I seen the same schemer skulkin’ about the house as if he was afeared o’ bein’ seen; and that beef and mutton may be my poison, wid health to use them, but I seen him stealin’ out of his lordship’s own room.  So, now make money o’ that; only when you do, don’t be puttin’ it in circulation.”

“No danger of that, Morty, in any sense.  At all events, I don’t deal in base coin.”

“Don’t you, faith.  I wondher what do you call imposin’ Barney Bryan, the horse-jockey, on his lordship, for Tom Norton, the gentleman?  However, no matther—­that’s your own affair; and so long as you let the good ould lord alone among you—­keep your secret—­I’m not goin’ to interfere wid you.  None of your travellers’ tricks upon him, though.”

“No, not on him, Morty; but concerning this forthcoming marriage, if it takes place, I dare say I must travel; I can’t depend upon Dunroe’s word.”

“Why, unlikelier things has happened, Mr. Norton.  I think you’ll be forced to set out.”