Day after day had elapsed, and the priest, notwithstanding repeated visits, could never find him at home.  The simple-hearted man had whispered to him in the watch-house, that he wished to speak to him upon that very subject—­a communication which filled the old fellow with alarm, and the consequence was, that he came to the resolution of not seeing him at all, if he could possibly avoid it.

One day, however, when better than a week had passed, Father M’Mahon entered his shop, where he found a woman standing’, as if she expected some person to come in.  His wife was weighing huckstery with her back to the counter, so that she was not aware of his presence.  Without speaking a word he passed as quietly as possible into the little back parlor, and sat down.  After about fifteen minutes he heard a foot overhead passing stealthily across the room, and coming to the lobby, where there was a pause, as if the person were listening.  At length the foot first came down one stair very quietly, then another, afterwards a third, and again there was a second pause, evidently to listen as before.  The priest kept his eyes steadily on the staircase, but was placed in such a position that he could see without being visible himself.  At length Corbet’s long scraggy neck was seen projecting like that of an ostrich across the banisters, which commanded a view of the shop through the glass door.  Seeing the coast, as he thought, clear, he ventured to speak.

“Is he gone?” he asked, “for I’ll take my oath I saw him come up the street.”

“You needn’t trust your eyes much longer, I think,” replied his wife, “you saw no such man; he wasn’t here at all.”

“Bekaise I know it’s about that poor boy he’s coming; and sure, if I stir in it, or betray the others, I can’t keep the country; an’, besides, I will lose my pension.”

Having concluded these words he came down the stairs into the little parlor we have mentioned, where he found Father M’Mahon sitting, his benevolent features lit up with a good deal of mirth at the confusion of Corbet, and the rueful aspect he exhibited on being caught in the trap so ingeniously laid for him.

“Dunphy,” said the priest, for by this name he went in the city, “you are my prisoner; but don’t be afraid in the mane time—­better my prisoner than that of a worse man.  And now, you thief o’ the world, why did you refuse to see me for the last week?  Why keep me trotting day after day, although you know I wanted to speak with you?  What have you to say for yourself?”

Corbet, before replying, gave a sharp, short, vindictive glance at his wife, whom he suspected strongly of having turned traitress, and played into the hands of the enemy.

“Troth, your reverence, I was sorry to hear that you had come so often;” and as he spoke, another glance toward the shop seemed to say, “You deceitful old wretch, you have betrayed and played the devil with me.”

“I don’t at all doubt it, Anthony,” replied the priest, “the truth being that you were sorry I came at all.  Come I am, however, and if I were to wait for twelve months, I wouldn’t go without seeing you.  Call in Mrs. Dunphy till I spake to her, and ask her how she is.”