Sir Thomas Gourlay was a man prompt and inexorable in following up his resolutions. On the night of Lucy's flight from Red Hall, he had concocted a plan which it was not his intention to put in execution for a day or two, as he had by no means made up his mind in what manner to proceed with it. On turning over the matter, however, a second time in his thoughts, and comparing the information which he had received from Crackenfudge respecting the stranger, and the allusion to the toothpick manufacturer, he felt morally certain that Fenton was his brother's son, and that by some means or other unknown to him he had escaped from the asylum in which he had been placed, and by some unaccountable fatality located himself in the town of Ballytrain, which, in fact, was a portion of his inheritance. “I am wrong,” thought he, “in deferring this project. There is not a moment to be lost. Some chance incident, some early recollection, even a sight of myself--for he saw me once or twice, to his cost--may awaken feelings which, by some unlucky association, might lead to a discovery. Curse on the cowardly scoundrel, Corbet, that did not take my hint, and put him at once and forever out of my path, sight, and hearing. But he had scruples, forsooth; and here now is the serpent unconsciously crossing my path. This is the third time he has escaped and broken out of bounds. Upon the two former I managed him myself, without a single witness; and, but that I had lost my own child--and there is a mystery I cannot penetrate--I would have--” Here he rang the bell, and a servant entered. “Send up Gillespie.” The servant, as usual, bowed, and Gillespie entered. “Gillespie, there is a young fellow in Ballytrain, named--Fenton, I think?” “Yes, your honor; he is half-mad, or whole mad, as a good many people think.” “I am told he is fond of liquor.” “He is seldom sober, Sir Thomas.” “Will you go into Ballytrain, and try to see him? But first see the butler, and desire him, by my orders, to give you a bottle of whiskey. I don't mean this moment, sirra,” he said, for Gillespie was proceeding to take him instantly at his word. “Listen, sir. See Fenton--lure him as quietly and secretly as you can out of town--bring him into some remote nook--” “Sir Thomas, I beg your pardon,” exclaimed Gillespie, getting pale; “if you mean that I should--” “Silence, sir,” replied the baronet, in his sternest and deepest voice; “hear me; bring him, if you can, to some quiet place, where you will both be free from observation; then produce your bottle and glass, and ply him with liquor until you have him drunk.” “It's very likely that I'll find him drunk as it is, sir; he is seldom otherwise.”