"as it is very plausible; if you
have evidence to prove what you have stated--"

"If it's evidence only is wanting, Mr. Maire, I'll confirm one part of
the story," said a voice in the crowd, in an accent and tone that assured
me the speaker was the injured proprietor of the stolen blankets. I
turned round hastily to look at my victim, and what was my surprise to
recognize a very old Dublin acquaintance, Mr. Fitzmaurice O'Leary.

"Good morning, Mr. Lorrequer," said he; "this is mighty like our ould
practices in College-green; but upon my conscience the maire has the
advantage of Gabbet. It's lucky for you I know his worship, as we'd call
him at home, or this might be a serious business. Nothing would persuade
them that you were not Lucien Buonaparte, or the iron mask, or something
of that sort, if they took it into their heads."

Mr. O'Leary was as good as his word. In a species of French, that I'd
venture to say would be perfectly intelligible in Mullingar, he contrived
to explain to the maire that I was neither a runaway nor a swindler, but
a very old friend of his, and consequently sans reproche. The official
was now as profuse of his civilities as he had before been of his
suspicions, and most hospitably pressed us to stay for breakfast. This,
for many reasons, I was obliged to decline--not the least of which was,
my impatience to get out of my present costume. We accordingly procured a
carriage, and I returned to the hotel, screened from the gaze but still
accompanied by the shouts of the mob, who evidently took a most lively
interest in the entire proceeding.

I lost no time in changing my costume, and was about to descend
to the saloon, when the master of the house came to inform me that
Mrs. Bingham's courier had arrived with the carriage, and that she
expected us at Amiens as soon as possible.

"That is all right. Now, Mr. O'Leary, I must pray you to forgive
all the liberty I have taken with you, and also permit me to defer the
explanation of many circumstances which seem at present strange, till--"

"Till sine die, if the story be a long one, my dear sir--there's nothing
I hate so much, except cold punch."

"You are going to Paris," said I; "is it not so?"

"Yes, I'm thinking of it. I was up at Trolhatten, in Norway, three weeks
ago, and I was obliged to leave it hastily, for I've an appointment with
a friend in Geneva."

"Then how do you travel?"

"On foot, just as you see, except that I've