“It may be a weakness,” said the other, “but before we go further, I make it a personal request, that you won't use Fitzy to me, and above all things, in the presence of strangers. I entrate and implore that you won't.”
“Very well, then—a bargain be it—but I must insist that you never call me Mat, or anything but Mr. Purcel, again.”
“Why, but you know you are not a magistrate, Mat.”
“Never mind, Fitzy—hem—never mind, your worship, call me whatever you like—unless a rogue—ha! ha! ha! well, but to business—what is this you want with me?”
“A business that, if well managed, may be a beneficial one to you and me both.”
“Out with it, though—you know I'm in a hurry.”
“Why now,” proceeded the little man, relapsing unconsciously into a sense of his violated dignity,—“curse me, if I'd for fifty—no, not for a hundred, that the Castle should come to know that I was addressed as Fitzy.”
The proctor's mirth was again renewed, but after a moment or two, the serious part of the conversation was resumed by the magistrate.
“Your son John, the other morning,” he proceeded, in a low and confidential tone, “hinted to me that you had partly discovered—hem—ahem—a very important circumstance—in short, that you had partly, if not altogether, discovered a—a conspiracy.”
The proctor stared at him with unaffected surprise, which, by the way, did not escape the magistrate's notice. “A conspiracy!” he added, “and did John tell you this?”