took a post-chaise at the village last
night, and I'm an agent of the gove'ment."

"But you're not drowned, sir--and he was," said Bermingham.

"To be su'e I'm not dwowned; but I'm the pe'son."

"Quite impossible, sir," said Mr. Bermingham. "You can't be the
person."

"Why, sir, do you expect to pe'suade me out of my own identity!"

"Oh," said Murphy, "there will be no occasion to prove identity till
the body is found, and the coroner's inquest sits; that's the law,
sir--at least, in Ireland."

Furlong's bewildered look at the unblushing impudence of Murphy was
worth anything. While he was dumb from astonishment, Mr. Bermingham,
with marked politeness, said, "Allow me, sir, for a moment to explain
to you. You see, it could not be you, for the gentleman was going to
Mr. O'Grady's."

"Well, sir," said Furlong, "and here I am."

The wide stare of the two men as they looked at each other was killing;
and while Furlong's face was turned towards Mr. Bermingham, Fanny
caught the clergy-man's eye, tapped her forehead with the fore-finger
of her right hand, shook her head, and turned up her eyes with an
expression of pity, to indicate that Furlong was not quite right in his
mind.

"Oh, I beg pardon, sir," said Mr. Bermingham. "I see it's a mistake of
mine."

"There certainly is a vewy gweat mistake somewhere," said Furlong, who
was now bent on a very direct question. "Pway, Miste' O'Gwady," said
he, addressing Egan, "that is, if you _are_ Miste' O'Gwady, will
you tell me, _are_ you Miste' O'Gwady?"

"Sir," said the Squire, "you have chosen to call me O'Grady ever since
you came here, but my name is Egan."

"What!--the member for the county?" cried Furlong, horrified.

"Yes," said the Squire, laughing; "do you want a frank?"

"'T will save your friends postage," said Dick, "when you write to them
to say you're safe."

"Miste' Wegan," said Furlong, with an attempt at offended dignity, "I
conside' myself vewy ill used."

"You're the first man I ever heard of being ill used at Merryvale
House," said Murphy.

"Sir, it's a gwievous w'ong!"

"What _is_ all this about?" asked Mr. Bermingham.

"My dear friend," said the Squire, laughing--though, indeed, that was
not peculiar to _him_, for every one round the table, save the victim,
was doing the same thing (as for Fanny, she _shouted_),--"My dear
friend, this gentleman came to my house last night, and _I_ took him for
a friend of Moriarty's, whom I have been exp