“Not sixpence.  A friend has just returned from France, who—­no,” thought he, “I will not state a falsehood—­Good-day, Mr. Corbet; I am wasting my time.”

“One minute, sir—­one minute.  It may be worth your while.”

“Yes; but you trifle with me by these reluctant and penurious communications.”

Anthony had laid down his head upon his hands, whose backs were supported by the table; and in this position, as’ if he were working himself into an act of virtue sufficient for a last effort, he remained until the stranger began to wonder what he meant.  At length he arose, went up stairs as on a former occasion, but with less—­and not much less—­hesitation and delay; he returned and handed him the identical documents of which M’Bride had deprived him.  “Now,” said he, “listen to me.  You know the value of these; but that isn’t what I want to spake to you about.—­Whatever you do about the widow’s son, don’t do it without lettin’ me know, and consultin’ me—­ay, and bein’ guided by me; for although you all think yourselves right, you may find, yourselves in the wrong box still.  Think of this now, and it will be better for you.  I’m not sure, but I’ll open all your eyes yet, and that before long; for I believe the time has come at last.  Now that I’ve given you these papers,” (extracted, by the way, from M’Bride’s pockets during his drunkenness, by Ginty Cooper, on the night she dogged him,) “you must promise me one thing.”

“What is that?”

“I suppose you know where this boy is?  Now, when you’re goin’ to find him, will you bring me with you?”

“Why so?”

“It’ll plaise an ould man, at any rate; but there may be other raisons.  Will, you do this?”

The stranger, concluding that the wisest tiring was to give him his way, promised accordingly, and. the old man seemed somewhat satisfied.

“One man, at all events, I’ll punish, if I should sacrifice every child I have in doin’ so; and it is in order that he may be punished to the heart—­to the marrow—­to the soul within him—­that I got these papers, and gave them to you.”

“Corbet,” said the stranger, “be the cause of your revenge what it may, its principle in your heart is awful.  You are, in fact, a dreadful old man.  May I ask how you came by these papers?”

“You may,” he replied; “but I won’t answer you.  At a future time it is likely I will—­but not now.  It’s enough for you to have them.”

On his way home the stranger called at Birney’s office, where he produced the documents; and it was arranged that the latter gentleman should wait upon Lord Cullamore the next day, in order to lay before him the proofs on which they were about to proceed; for, as they were now complete, they thought it more respectful to that venerable old nobleman to appeal privately to his own good sense, whether it would not be more for the honor of his family to give him an opportunity of yielding quietly, and without public scandal, than to drag the matter before the world in a court of justice.  It was so arranged; and a suitable warrant having been procured to enable them to produce the body of the unfortunate Fenton, the proceedings of that day closed very much to their satisfaction.