"Ah! did he not guess?" rejoined the Neapolitan; "per crilla! the deception succeed, then—vary coning faylow was old Sir Richard—bote not half so coning as his son, Sir Henry. He never suspect—Mr. O'Connor never doubt, bote took all the letters and read them just so as Sir Henry said he would. Malora! what great meesfortune."
"Parucci, speak plainly to the point; I cannot endure this. Say at once what has he done—how have I been deceived?" cried O'Connor.
"You remember when the old gentleman—Mr. Audley, I think he is call—saw Sir Richard—immediately after that some letters passed between you and Mees Mary Ashwoode."
"I do remember it—proceed," replied O'Connor.
"Mees Mary's letters to you were cold and unkind, and make you think she did not love you any more," added Parucci.
"Well, well—say on—say on—for God's sake, man—say on," cried O'Connor, vehemently.
"Those letters you got were not written by her," continued the Italian, coolly; "they were all wat you call forged—written by another person, and planned by Sir Henry and Sir Reechard; and the same way on the other side—the letters you wrote to her were all stopped, and read by the same two gentlemen, and other letters written in stead, and she is breaking her heart, because she thinks you 'av betrayed her, and given her up—rotta di collo! they 'av make nice work!"
"Prove this to me, prove it," said O'Connor, wildly, while his eye burned with the kindling fire of fury.
"I weel prove it," rejoined Parucci, but with an agitated voice and a troubled face; "bote, corpo di Plato, you weel keel me if I tell—promise—swear—by your honour—you weel not horte me—you weel not toche me—swear, Signor, and I weel tell."
"Miserable caitiff—speak, and quickly—you are safe—I swear it," rejoined he.