“I hope I may know yez agin,” replied the pedlar, for he was one; “I was jist long enough behind the corner to hear some of what you were spakin' about last.”
“An' what was that?” said Dalton, putting him to the test.
“You were talkin' about the murdher of one Sullivan.”
“We were,” replied Dalton; “but I'll thank you to say nothing further about it; it's disagreeable to both of us—distressin' to both of us.”
“I don't understand that,” said the old pedlar; “how can it be so to either of you, if you're not consarned in it one way or other?”
“We are, then,” said Dalton, with warmth; “the man that was killed was this girl's uncle, and the man that was supposed to take his life is my father. Maybe you understand me now?”
The blood left the cheeks of the old man, who staggered over to the ledge whereon they sat, and placed himself beside them.
“God of Heaven!” said he, with astonishment, “can this be thrue?”
“Now that you know what you do know,” said Dalton, “we'll thank you to drop the subject.”
“Well, I will,” said he; “but first, for Heaven's sake, answer me a question or two. What's your name, avick?”