“I put a person of the name of Rushbrook in possession of a large fortune. I asked our young friend’s sister whether he could be any relation; but she said no.”
“Young Rushbrook had no sister, I am sure,” interrupted McShane.
“I now recollect,” continued Mr Trevor, “that this person who came into the fortune stated that he had formerly held a commission in the army.”
“Then, depend on it, it’s Rushbrook himself, who has given himself brevet rank,” replied McShane. “Where is he now?”
“Down in Dorsetshire,” said Mr Trevor. “He succeeded to the Austin estates, and has taken the name.”
“’Tis he—’tis he—I’ll swear to it,” cried McShane. “Phillaloo! Murder and Irish! the murder’s out now. No wonder this gentleman wouldn’t return my visit, and keeps himself entirely at home. I beg your pardon, Mr Trevor, but what sort of a looking personage may he be, for as I have said, I have never seen this Mr Austin?”
“A fine, tall, soldierly man; I should say rough, but still not vulgar; dark hair and eyes, aquiline nose; if I recollect right—”
“’Tis the man!” exclaimed O’Donahue.
“And his wife—did you see her?” asked McShane.
“No I did not,” replied Mr Trevor.