“Of Sullivan!” he exclaimed; “well, to be sure—­oh, ay—­well, sure that same is something; but, in the mane time, will you let me look at this Box you spoke of?  I feel a curiosity to see it.”

Hanlon rose and taking the Box from a small deal chest which was strongly locked, placed it in the pedlar’s hands.  After examining it closely for about half a minute, they could observe that he got very pale, and his hands began to tremble, as he held and turned it about in a manner that was very remarkable.

“Do you say,” he asked, in an agitated voice, “that you have no manes of tracin’ the murdher?”

“None more than what we’ve tould you.”

“Did this Box belong to the murdhered man?—­I mane, do you think he had it about him at the time of his death?”

“Ay, an’ for some time before it,” replied the woman.  “It’s all belongin’ to him that we can find now.”

“And you got it in the keeping of this M’Gowan, the Black Prophet, you say?”

“We did,” replied the woman, “from his daughter, at all events.”

“Who is this Black Prophet?” he asked; “or what is he? for that comes nearer the mark.  Where did he come from, where does he live, an’ what way does he earn his bread?”

“The boy here,” she replied, pointing to Hanlon, “can tell you that betther than I can; for although I’ve been at his place three or four times, I never laid eyes on him yet.”

“Well,” continued the pedlar, “you have both a right to be thankful that you tould me this.  I now see the hand of God in the whole business.  I know this box an’ I can tell you something that will surprise you more than that.  Listen—­but wait—­I hear somebody’s foot.  No matter—­I’ll surprise you both by an’ by.”

“Godsave all here,” said the voice of our friend, Jemmy Branigan, who immediately entered.  “In troth, this change is for the betther, at any rate,” said he, looking at the house; “I gave you a lift wid the masther yestherday,” he added, turning to the woman.  “I think I’ll get him to throw the ten shillings off—­he as good as promised me he would.”

“Masther!” exclaimed the pedlar, bitterly—­“oh, thin, it’s he that’s the divil’s masther, by all accounts, an’ the divil’s landlord, too.  Be me sowl, he’ll get a warm corner down here;” and as he uttered the words, he very significantly stamped with his heel, to intimate the geographical position of the place alluded to.

“It would be only manners to wait till your opinion is axed of him,” replied Jemmy; “so mind your pack, you poor sprissaun, or when you do spake, endeavor to know something of what you’re discoorsin’ about.  Masther, indeed!  Divil take your impidence!”

“He’s a scourge to the counthry,” continued the pedlar; “a worse landlord never faced the sun.”

“That’s what we call in this part of the counthry—­a lie,” replied Jemmy.  “Do you understand what that manes?”

“No one knows what an’ outrageous ould blackguard he is betther than yourself,” proceeded the pedlar; “an’ how he harrishes the poor.”