“You speak of his uncle,” replied Fethertonge, “who is dead.  This young man, who now owns his uncle’s farm, is son to Thomas M’Mahon of Carriglass.  How is your father, M’Mahon?  I hope he bears up well under his recent loss.”

“Indeed but poorly, sir,” replied Bryan, “I fear he’ll never be the same man.”

Chevydale here took to reading a newspaper, and in a minute or two appeared to be altogether unconscious of Bryan’s presence.

“I’m afeard, sir,” said Bryan, addressing himself to the agent, who was the only person likely to hear him, “I’m afeard, sir, that I’ve got into trouble.”

“Into trouble? how is that?”

“Why, sir, there was a Still, Head, and Worm found upon Ahadarra, and I’m going to be fined for it.”

“M’Mahon,” replied the agent, “I am sorry to hear this, both on your own account and that of your family.  If I don’t mistake, you were cautioned and warned against this; but it was useless; yes, I am sorry for it; and for you, too.”

“I don’t properly understand you, sir,” said Bryan.

“Did I not myself forewarn you against having anything to do in matters contrary to the law?  You must remember I did, and on the very last occasion, too, when you were in my office.”

“I remember it right well, sir,” replied Bryan, “and I say now as I did then, that I am not the man to break the law, or have act or part in anything that’s contrary to it.  I know nothing about this business, except that three ruffianly looking fellows named Hogan, common tinkers, and common vagabonds to boot—­men that are my enemies—­are the persons by all accounts who set up the still on my property.  As for myself, I had no more to do in it or with it than yourself or Mr. Chevydale here.”

“Well,” replied Fethertonge, “I hope not.  I should feel much disappointed if you had, but you know, Bryan,” he added, good-humoredly, “we could scarcely expect that you should admit such a piece of folly, not to call it by a harsher name.”

“If I had embarked in it,” replied M’Mahon, “I sartinly would not deny it to you or Mr. Chevydale, at least; but, as I said before, I know nothing more about it, than simply it was these ruffians and a fellow named Phats, a Distiller, that set it a-working,—­however, the question is, what am I to do?  If I must pay the fine for the whole townland, it will beggar me—­ruin me.  It was that brought me to my landlord here,” he added; “I believe, sir, you have a brother a Commissioner of Excise?”

“Eh? what is that?” asked Chevydaie, looking up suddenly as Bryan asked the question.

M’Mahon was obliged to repeat all the circumstances once more, as did Feathertonge the warning he had given him against having any connection with illegal proceedings.

“I am to get a memorial drawn up tomorrow, sir,” proceeded Bryan, “and I was thinking that by giving the Board of Excise a true statement of the case, they might reduce the fine; if they don’t, I am ruined—­that’s all.”