“This Gwynne wasn't all right, depend upon it,” interposed a certain little man in powder; “I have my own suspicions about him.”
“Well, now, Mr. Dunlop, what's your opinion? I'd like to hear it.”
“What does Mrs. M'Caudlish say?” rejoined the little gentleman, turning to the authoress,—for in the boarding-house they both presided judicially in all domestic inquisitions regarding conduct and character,—“what does Mrs. M'Caudlish say?”
“I prefer letting Mr. Dunlop expose himself before me.”
“The case is doubtful—dark—mysterious,” said Dunlop, with a solemn pause after each word.
“The more beyond my conjunctions,” said the lady. “You remember what the young gentleman says in the Latin poet, 'Sum Davy, non sum Euripides.'”
“I 'll tell you my opinion, then,” said Mr. Dunlop, who was evidently mollified by the classical allusion; and with firm and solemn gesture he crossed over to where she sat, and whispered a few words in her ear.
A slight scream, and a long-drawn “Oh!” was all the answer.
“Upon my soul, I believe so,” said Mr. Dunlop, thrusting both hands into the furthest depths of his coat-pockets; “nay, more, I'll maintain it!”
“I know what you are driving at,” said Dempsey, laughing; “you think he's the gauger that went off with Mrs. Murdoch of Ballyquirk—”