“Well, then, Sir Thomas, to make short work of it, the fellow’s name is Harry Hedles.  He was clerk to the firm of Grinwell and Co., the great tooth-brush manufacturers—­absconded with some of their cash, came over here, and smuggled himself, in the shape of a gentleman, into respectable families; and a’m positively informed, that he has succeeded in seducing the affections, and becoming engaged to the daughter and heiress of a wealthy baronet.”

The look which Sir Thomas turned upon Crackenfudge made the cowardly caitiff tremble.

“Harkee, Mr. Crackenfudge,” said he; “did you hear the name of the baronet, or of his daughter?”

“A’ did not, Sir Thomas; the person that told me was ignorant of this himself.”

“May I ask who your informant was, Mr. Crackenfudge?”

“Why, Sir Thomas, a half mad fellow, named Fenton, who said that he saw this vagabond at an establishment in England conducted by a brother of this Grinwell’s.”

The baronet paused for a moment, but the expression which took possession of his features was one of the most intense interest that could be depicted on the human countenance; he fastened his eyes upon Crackenfudge, as if he would have read the very soul within him, and by an effort restrained himself so far as to say, with forced composure, “Pray, Mr. Crackenfudge, what kind of a person is this Fenton, whom you call half-mad, and from whom you had this information?”

Crackenfudge described Fenton, and informed Sir Thomas that in the opinion of the people he was descended of a good family, though neglected and unfortunate.  “But,” he added, “as to who he really is, or of what family, no one can get out of him.  He’s close and cunning.”

“Is he occasionally unsettled in his reason?” asked the baronet, with assumed indifference.

“No doubt of it, Sir Thomas; he’ll sometimes pass a whole week or fortnight and never open his lips.”

The baronet appeared to be divided between two states of feeling so equally balanced as to leave him almost without the power of utterance.  He walked, he paused, he looked at Crackenfudge as if he would speak, then resumed his step with a hasty and rapid stride that betokened the depth of what he felt.

“Well, Crackenfudge,” he said, “your intelligence, after all, is but mere smoke.  I thought the fellow in the inn was something beyond the rank of clerk to a tooth-brush maker; he is not worth our talk, neither is that madman Fenton.  In the mean time, I am much obliged to you, and you may calculate upon my services wherever they can be made available to your interests.  I would not now hurry you away nor request you to curtail your visit, were it not that I expect Lord Cullamore here in about half an hour, or perhaps less, and I wish to see Miss Gourlay previous to his arrival.”