“Very well, sir,” replied M’Mahon, “I lave it all in your own hands, for I know that if you won’t be my friend, you won’t be my enemy.”

“Well—­certainly—­I hope not.  Will you take anything?  Here, James, bring in some brandy.”

M’Mahon’s protest against the brandy was anything but invincible.  Fethertonge’s manner was so kind, so familiar, and his interest in the success of himself and his family so unaffectedly warm and sincere, that, after drinking his health, he took his leave with a light and. happy heart.

Their journey home was a little more lively than the depression of Jemmy Burke’s mind had allowed it to be on their way to the auction.  Yet each had his own peculiar feelings, independently of those which were elicited by the conversation.  Jemmy Burke, who had tasted some of Wallace’s liquor, as indeed, with the exception of Bryan, they all did, was consequently in a better and more loquacious humor than he had been during the day.  On this occasion his usual good fortune attended him for it was the opinion of every one there, that he had got the best bargain disposed of during the day—­a lot of twenty-five wethers in prime condition.  Gerald Cavanagh, who had also tasted the poteen, stuck as closely as possible to his skirts, moved thereto by a principle of adhesion, with which our readers are already acquainted; and Bryan, who saw and understood his motives, felt by no means comfortable at witnessing such strong symptoms of excessive attachment.  Old M’Mahon did not speak much, for, in truth, he could not overcome the depressing effects of the scene he had witnessed, nor of the words uttered by Wallace, as they bade each other farewell.

Burke, however, and his companion, Cavanagh, looked like men between whom a warm friendship was about to grow up.  Whenever they came to a public-house or a shebeen, they either dismounted and had a cordial drop together, or took it in the saddle after touching each other’s glasses in token of love and amity.  It is true some slight interruption occurred, that disturbed the growing confidence and familiarity of their dialogue, which interruption consisted in the endless whinnying of the mare whenever her foal delayed a moment behind her, or in the sudden and abrupt manner in which she wheeled about with a strong disposition to return and look for it.

On the discovery of Burke’s robbery an investigation was set on foot, but with no prospect of success, and without in any way involving the Hogans, who were strongly suspected.  It was clearly proved that Philip and one of his brothers slept in their usual residence—­Cavanagh’s corn-kiln—­on that night, but it was admitted that Batt Hogan and his wife Kate were both abroad the greater portion of it.  On them suspicion might, indeed, very naturally have rested, were it not for the evidence of Hycy himself, who at once admitted that he could exonerate them from any suspicion, as he knew both how and where they had passed the night in question.  So far, therefore, the Hogans, dishonest as they were unquestionably reputed to be, now stood perfectly exonerated from all suspicion.