“But how is this?” he added; “you are silent, and I fear, now that I look at you a second time, that matters have not gone well with you.  For God’s sake, however, let me know; for I am impatient to hear the result.”

“All is lost,” replied Birney; “and I fear we have been outgeneralled.  The clergyman is dead, and the book in which the record of her death was registered has disappeared, no one knows how.  I strongly suspect, however, that your opponent is at the bottom of it.”

“You mean Dunroe?”

“I do; that scoundrel Norton, at once his master and his slave, accompanied by a suspicious-looking fellow, whose name I discovered to be Mulholland, were there before us, and I fear, carried their point by securing the register, which I have no doubt has been by this time reduced to ashes.”

“In that case, then,” replied the stranger, despondingly, “it’s all up with us.”

“Unless,” observed Birney, “you have been more successful at home than I have been abroad.  Any trace of Mrs. Norton?”

“None whatsoever.  But, my dear Birney, what you tell me is surprisingly mysterious.  How could Dunroe become aware of the existence of these documents? or, indeed, of our proceedings at all?  And who is this Mulholland you speak of that accompanied him?”

“I know nothing whatever about him,” replied Birney, “except that he is a fellow of dissolute appearance, with sandy hair, not ill-looking, setting aside what is called a battered look, and a face of the most consummate effrontery.”

“I see it all,” replied the other.  “That drunken scoundrel M’Bride has betrayed us, as far, at least, as he could.  The fellow, while his conduct continued good, was in my confidence, as far as a servant ought to be.  In this matter, however, he did not know all, unless, indeed, by inference from the nature of the document itself, and from knowing the name of the family whose position it affected.  How it might have affected them, however, I don’t think he knew.”

“But how do you know that this Mulholland is that man?”

“From your description of him I am confident there can be no mistake about it—­not the slightest; he must have changed his name purposely on this occasion; and, I dare say, Dunroe has liberally paid him for his treachery.”

“But what is to be done now?” asked Birney; “here we are fairly at fault.”

“I have seen Miss Gourlay,” replied the other, “and if it were only from motives of humanity, we must try, by every means consistent with honor, to stop or retard her marriage with Dunroe.”

“But how are we to do so?”

“I know not at present; but I shall think of it.  This is most unfortunate.  I declare solemnly that it was only in so far as the facts we were so anxious to establish might have enabled us to prevent this accursed union, that I myself felt an interest in our success.  Miss Gourlay’s happiness was my sole motive of action.”