“I have no communication to make,” said the stranger, “that you may be afraid of; but, such as it is, it can be made to no person but Denis Dunphy himself. I have a letter for him.”
“Who does it come from?” asked the cautious Denis Dunphy.
“From the parish priest of Ballytrain,” replied the other, “the Rev. Father M'Mahon.”
The old man pulled out a large snuff-box, and took a long pinch, which he crammed with his thumb first into one nostril, then into the other, bending his head at the same! time to each side, in order to enjoy it with greater relish, after which he gave a short deliberative cough or two.
“Well,” said he, “I am Denis Dunphy.”
“In that case, then,” replied the other, “I should very much wish to have a short private conversation with you of some importance. But you had better first read the reverend gentleman's letter,” he added, “and perhaps we shall then understand each other better;” and as he spoke he handed him the letter.
The man received it, looked at it, and again took a more rapid and less copious pinch, peered keenly at the stranger, and asked—“Pray, sir, do you know the contents of this letter?”
“Not a syllable of it.”
He then coughed again, and having opened the document, began deliberately to peruse it.
The stranger, who was disagreeably impressed by his whole manner and appearance, made a point to watch the effect which the contents of the document might have on him. The other, in the meantime, read on, and, as he proceeded, it was obvious that the communication was not only one that gave him no pleasure, but filled him with suspicion and alarm. After about twenty minutes—for it took him at least that length of time to get through it—he raised his head, and fastening his small, piercing eyes upon the stranger, said: