“What!” I exclaimed, springing up from the bench at which I was partaking of a hurried supper.
“Ay; he came with a message for the young lady up yonder at Mr Shannon’s.”
“What sort of man was he?”
“Much like yourself—a common-looking man, with a shaven face and a nose that turns up.”
“Did he ride an iron-grey mare?” said I.
“Faith, a beauty.”
“It’s Martin!” I exclaimed, confirmed more than ever in my suspicions of foul play. “Show me Mr Shannon’s house, like a decent man,” said I to mine host.
“There’ll be no one stirring there at this hour. His honour’s away with Mr Gorman, and the women folks will be a-bed long since.”
“Never mind about that,” said I; “show me the house.”
The landlord grumblingly turned out and walked with me to the Hall, which was some half-mile beyond the village.