them but the trifling communications of two young women, who
mentioned what was amusing to them, but uninteresting to those who were
not acquainted with the parties.

When we had finished, Mr Cophagus collected all together, and putting
them into a box, we returned in a coach to the hotel. The next day Mr
Cophagus had completed all his arrangements, and the day following had
determined to return to England. I walked with him down to the vessel,
and watched it for an hour after it had sailed, for it bore away a
packet of papers, which I could not help imagining were to discover the
secret which I was so eager in pursuit of. A night's sleep made me more
rational, and I now resolved to ascertain where Sir Henry de Clare, or
Melchior, as I felt certain he must be, was to be found. I sent for the
waiter, and asked him if he could inform me. He immediately replied in
the affirmative, and gave his address, Mount Castle, Connemara, asking
me when I intended to set out. It did not strike me till afterwards,
that it was singular that he should be so well acquainted with the
address, and that he should have produced a card with it written upon
it; or, moreover, that he should know that it was my intention to go
there. I took the address, and desired that I might have horses ready
very early the next morning. I then sat down and wrote a letter to
Harcourt, informing him of my proceedings, also one to Mr Masterton
much more explicit, lastly to Timothy, to the care of Harcourt,
requesting him to let me know what had occurred between him and the
gipsies. After dinner, I packed up ready for my journey, and having
settled my bill, I was not sorry to retire to my bed.

At daylight I was, as I requested, called by the waiter; and taking with
me only a very small portmanteau, having left the rest of my effects in
the charge of the people who kept the hotel, I set off in a post-chaise
on my expedition. I was soon clear of the city, and on a fine smooth
road, and, as I threw myself back in the corner of the chaise, I could
not help asking myself the question--what was the purport of my journey?
As the reader will perceive, I was wholly governed by impulses, and
never allowed reason or common sense to stand in the way of my feelings.
"What have I to do?" replied I to myself; "to find out if Melchior and
Sir Henry de Clare be not one and the same person. And what then? What
then?--why then I may find out something relative to Flet