“I gave it to Sir Within Wardle; he has it now.”
“Where did it come from? Who wrote it?”
“It came from Ireland, and from a part of Ireland that, maybe, you never heard of.”
“And the writer—who was he?”
“That’s no business of mine,” said O’Rorke; but he contrived to give the words the significance that would mean, “Nor of yours either.”
“I think I can guess without your help, my worthy friend; and I have suspected it would come to this for many a day. What relation are you to her?”
“Your honour must explain yourself better, if you want a clear answer,” replied he, in some confusion.
“Don’t fence with me, my fine fellow. I’m more than your match at that game. I see the whole thing with half an eye. She wants to come back!”
As he said the last words he sat up straight in the chair, and darted a searching, stern look at the other.
“Faix, this is all riddles to me,” said O’Rorke, folding his hands, and looking his very utmost to seem like one puzzled and confused.