" I was obliged to make inquiries concerning his
whereabouts, and this investigation soon convinced me that there was
something wrong in Mayo after all; not the _spectre vert_ exactly, but
yet an unpleasant impalpability. All was well at Claremorris. Trade
was good "presently now," potatoes were good and cheap, poverty was
not advancing arm-in-arm with winter. It was cold, for snow was
already on the Nephin; but turf had been stored during the long, fine,
warm summer, and nobody was afraid of the frost. But the instant I
mentioned the name of the gentleman I wanted to find not a soul knew
anything about him. Farming several hundred acres of land on his own
account, a resident on Lough Mask for seven years, and agent to Lord
Erne, he seemed to be a man concerning whose movements the country
side would probably be well informed. But nobody knew anything at all
about him. He might be at the Curragh, or he might be in Dublin, and
then would, one informant thought, slip over to England and get out of
the trouble, if he were wise. In one of the larger stores I saw that
the mention of his name drew every eye upon me, and that the
bystanders were greatly exercised as to my identity and my business.
In this part of the country everybody knows everybody, and a stranger
asking for a proscribed man excited native curiosity to a maddening
pitch. Presently I was taken aside, led round a corner, and there told
that most assuredly the man I sought had not come home from Dublin
_via_ Claremorris. Having a map of the county with me, I naturally
suggested that he might have reached Lough Mask by way of Tuam, and,
moreover, that, having a shrewd notion he would be shot at when
occasion served, he would most likely try to get home by an unusual
route on which he would hardly be looked for. "Is it alone ye think
he'd be going, Sorr?" asked my informant in astonishment. "Divil a fut
does he stir widout an escort." This was news indeed. "He came here,
sure, Sorr, wid two constables on the kyar and two mounted men
following him." I was also recommended to hold my tongue, for that Mr.
Boycott's friends would certainly not tell whether he was at home or
not, and his enemies would probably be kept in ignorance or led astray
altogether. But it was necessary for me to find out his whereabouts.
To go and see whether he was at Lough Mask involved a ride of forty
miles, enlivened by the probability of being mistaken for him,
slipping quietly home, and c