Vane leaned heavily on his tormentor.
“I am faint,” said he.
“Lean on me, my dear friend,” said Sir Charles. “Your weakness will leave you in the next street.”
In the next street they discovered—nothing. In the shop, they found—no Mrs. Woffington. They returned to the principal street. Vane began to hope there was no positive evidence. Suddenly three stories up a fiddle was heard. Pomander took no notice, but Vane turned red; this put Sir Charles upon the scent.
“Stay!” said he. “Is not that an Irish tune?”
Vane groaned. He covered his face with his hands, and hissed out:
“It is her favorite tune.”
“Aha!” said Pomander. “Follow me!”
They crept up the stairs, Pomander in advance; they heard the signs of an Irish orgie—a rattling jig played and danced with the inspiriting interjections of that frolicsome nation. These sounds ceased after a while, and Pomander laid his hand on his friend's shoulder.
“I prepare you,” said he, “for what you are sure to see. This woman was an Irish bricklayer's daughter, and 'what is bred in the bone never comes out of the flesh;' you will find her sitting on some Irishman's knee, whose limbs are ever so much stouter than yours. You are the man of her head, and this is the man of her heart. These things would be monstrous, if they were not common; incredible, if we did not see them every day. But this poor fellow, whom probably she deceives as well as you, is not to be sacrificed like a dog to your unjust wrath; he is as superior to her as you are to him.”