“So I intend, sir; and he has been spakin’ to me about comin’ forrid publicly, in regard of an intention he has of writin’ a new tract consarning me, to be called the Converted Bailiff, or a Companion to the Religious Attorney; and he says, sir, that he’ll get us bound up together.”

“Does he?” said Val, dryly; “strung up, I suppose he means.”

“Troth your honor’s right,” replied Darby; “but my own mimory isn’t what it used to be—­it was strung up he said, sure enough, sir.”

“Very well,” said Val, “but now to business.  Phil, my boy, you move off for a little—­Darby and I have a small matter to talk over, that nobody must hear but ourselves.”

“All right,” replied Phil; “so take care of yourselves;” and accordingly left the room.

Now the truth was, that M’Clutchy, who perfectly understood the half-witted character of his son—­for be it known that worthy Phil was considered by those who had the honor of his acquaintance, as anything but an oracle—­did not feel himself justified in admitting the said Phil to full confidence in all his plans and speculations.

“You see now,” said he, addressing Darby sternly—­“you see the opinion which I entertain of your honesty, when I trust you more than I do my son.”

“Troth I do your honor—­and by the same token did I ever betray you?”

“Betray, you scoundrel! what had you to betray?” said Val indignantly, whatever I do is for the benefit of the country in general, and for Lord Cumber’s property in particular:  you know that.”

“Know it! doesn’t the whole world know it, sir?”

“Well, then”—­said Val, softening—–­“now to business.  In the first place observe my words—­listen.”

Darby said nothing, but looked at him in the attitude of deep and breathless attention.

“Whenever you happen to execute a warrant of distress—­that is, when removing furniture or any other property off the premises, keep a sharp look out for any papers or parchments that happen to come in your way.  It would do no harm if you should slip them quietly into your pocket and bring them to me.  I say quietly, because there is a spirit abroad among the people that we must watch; but if they once suspected that we were on the look out for it, they might baffle us; these papers, you know can be returned.”

“I see, your honor,” said Darby—­“there you are right, as, indeed, you always are.”

“Very well, then.  Is the night dark and stormy?”

“So dark, sir, that a blind man could see it.”

Val then approached the bailiff, looked cautiously about the room—­opened the door, and peeped into the hall; after which he returned, and placing about half-a-dozen written papers in his hand, whispered something to him with great earnestness and deliberation.  Darby heard him with profound attention, nodded his head significantly as he spoke, and placed the point of his right hand fore-finger on the papers, as if he said, “I see—­I understand—­I am to do so and so with these; it’s all clear—­all right, and it shall be done before I sleep.”