“Perfectly correct,” replied M’Carthy; “and you must have had your information only from the person who befriended me.”

“Well, then, have you-any objection to come with me now?”

“Every objection; I wish to go either to Mr. O’Driscol’s or Mr. Purcel’s.”

“Listen.  I say if you attempt this night to go to either one house or the other, you will never carry your life to them.  If I was your enemy, and wished to put a bullet into you, what is there to prevent me now, I ask you?”

“All, my good friend,” replied M’Carthy, “that argument won’t pass with me.  Many. a man there is—­and I dare say you know it well—­who feels a strong scruple against committing murder with his own hands, who, notwithstanding, will not scruple to employ others to commit it for him.”

“Do you refuse to come with me, then? because if you do to-morrow mornin’ will rise upon your corpse.  Even I couldn’t save you if you were known.  There’s a desperate and a dreadful game goin’ to be played soon, and as you stand in the way of a man that possesses great power, and has a perticular end in view—­the consequence is that you are doomed.  Even if you do come with me, I must blacken your face, in ordher to prevint you from being known.”

“Will you answer me one question candidly,” said M’Carthy—­“if it’s a fair one?  Did I see you to-night before?”

“Ask me no question,” replied the man; “for I won’t answer any I don’t like, and that happens to be one o’ them.  Whether you saw me this night before, or whether you didn’t, there is no occasion for me to say so, and I won’t say it.”

“I think I know him now,” said M’Carthy; “and if I judge correctly, he is anything but a safe guide.”

“Come,” said the huge Whiteboy, “make up your mind; I won’t weet another minute.”

M’Carthy paused and deliberately reconsidered as coolly as possible all the circumstances of the night.  It was obvious that this man must have had his information with respect to the recent events from his friendly preserver—­a man who would not be likely to betray him into danger after having actually saved his life, by running the risk of committing two murders.  On the other band it was almost clear, from the manner in which the person before him pronounced certain words, as well as from his figure, that he was the celebrated and mysterious Buck English of whose means of living every one was ignorant, and who, as he himself had heard, expressed a strong dislike to him.

“Before I make up my mind,” said M’Carthy, “may I ask another question?”

“Fifty if you like, but I won’t promise to answer any one o’ them.”

“Was I brought to Finnerty’s house with an evil purpose?”

“No:  the poor, pious fool that brought you—­there—­but I’m wrong in sayin’ so—­for it was the mist that done it.  No, the poor fool that came there with you is a crature that nobody would trust.  He thinks you’re lyin’ sound asleep in Finnerty’s this minute.  He’s fit for nothing but prayin’ and thinking the girls in love with him.”