“And upon what grounds, may I ask?”
“Why, simply because no other man had any interest in getting the child removed. Every one knows he's a dark, tyrannical, bad man, that wouldn't be apt to scruple at anything. There now,” he added, “that is all I know about it; and I suppose it's not more than you knew yourself before.”
In order to close the dialogue he stood up, and at once led the way down to the back parlor, where the stranger, on following him, found Ginty Cooper and the old woman in close conversation, which instantly ceased when they made their appearance.
The stranger, chagrined and vexed at his want of success, was about to depart, when Dunphy's wife said:
“Maybe, sir, you'd wish to get your fortune tould? bekaise, if you would, here's a woman that will tell it to you, and you may depend upon it she'll tell you nothing but the truth.”
“I am not in a humor for such nonsense, my good woman; I have much more important matters to think of, I assure you; but I suppose the woman wishes to have her hand crossed with silver; well, it shall be done. Here, my good woman,” he said offering her money, “accept this, and spare your prophecy.”
“I will not have your money, sir,” replied the prophetess; “and I say so to let you know that I'm not an impostor. Be advised, and hear me—show me your hand.”
The startling and almost supernatural appearance of the woman struck him very forcibly, and with a kind of good-humored impatience, he stretched out his hand to her. “Well,” said he, “I will test the truth of what you promise.”
She took it into hers, and after examining the lines for a few seconds said, “The lines in your hand, sir, are very legible—so much so that I can read your name in it—and it's a name which very few in this country know.”
The stranger started with astonishment, and was about to speak, but she signed to him to be silent.