“It’ll be a matther of twinty year, maybe,” said the old man. “My mimiry’s bad.”
“That’s it,” I put in hurriedly, seeing the law about to protest. “It’s of her I want to know.”
Mr Mullins considered me astutely from under his lids. Honour amongst thieves, sure enough; but wasn’t there such a thing as a statute of limitations to the duties one owed? Besides, a reward might be in the air. I pride myself so far on my worldly precocity, that I tipped him, moderately, on the spot. The act refreshed his memory wonderfully.
“I recall she came into money, did the ould lady,” he said; “and tuk herself away. There was a daughter she’d be owning; a fine handsome girl, that had her throuble and married a lord despite. He saw her on the stage, twas said, a young jule of a thing, and lost his heart to her. But there was a parson in them days up at the tin chapel yander—Pugsley was his name, the heretic—and he made her religious—Musha! the scoundrel—and brought her ould lord to terms, and married them.”
He stopped, and covertly bit the coin I had given him to test it.
“And what became of the mother?” I asked, seeing that he proffered no more.
“She tuk herself arrf, your honour,” said he.
“You don’t know where?”
“No, by the powers, I don’t; and that’s the thruth,” he said; and indeed there could be no purpose in his lying.
Then I had only one other question to ask, and out it came: