attorney."

"To Birney!" exclaimed the other; and, as he spoke, he seemed actually
to stagger back a step or two, whilst the paleness of his complexion
increased to a hue that was ghastly--"to Birney!--to my blackest
and bitterest enemy--to the man who, I suspect, has important
family documents of mine in his possession. Thanks, even for this,
Crackenfudge--you are looking to become of the peace. Hearken now; aid
me in ferreting out this lurking scoundrel, and I shall not forget your
wishes." He then rode homewards.

The stranger, during this stormy dialogue with Sir Thomas Gourlay,
turned his eye, from time to time, toward Fenton, who appeared to have
lost consciousness itself so long as the baronet was in the room. On the
departure, however, of that gentleman, he went over to him, and said:

"Why, Fenton, what's the matter?" Fenton looked at him with a face of
great distress, from which the perspiration was pouring, but seemed
utterly unable to speak.

CHAPTER VI. Extraordinary Scene between Fenton and the Stranger.

The character of Fenton was one that presented an extraordinary variety
of phases. With the exception of the firmness and pertinacity with which
he kept the mysterious secret of his origin and identity--that is, if
he himself knew them, he was never known to maintain the same moral
temperament for a week together. Never did there exist a being so
capricious and unstable. At one time, you found him all ingenuousness
and candor; at another, no earthly power could extort a syllable of
truth from his lips. For whole days, if not for weeks together, he
dealt in nothing but the wildest fiction, and the most extraordinary and
grotesque rodomontade. The consequence was, that no reliance could be
placed on anything he said or asserted. And yet--which appeared to
be rather unaccountable in such a character--it could be frequently
observed that he was subject to occasional periods of the deepest
dejection. During those painful and gloomy visitations, he avoided
all intercourse with his fellow-men, took to wandering through the
country--rarely spoke to anybody, whether stranger or acquaintance, but
maintained the strictest and most extraordinary silence. If he passed a
house at meal-time he entered, and, without either preface or apology,
quietly sat down and joined them. To this freedom on his part, in a
country so hospitable as Ireland in the days of her prosperity was, and
could afford to be, no one ev