For the next three or four days the stranger confined himself mostly to his room, unless about dusk, when he glided out very quietly, and disappeared rather like a spirit than anything else; for, in point of fact, no one could tell what had become of him, or where he could have concealed himself, during these brief but mysterious absences. Paudeen Gair and Peggy observed that he wrote at least three or four letters every day, and knew that he must have put them into the post-office with his own hands, inasmuch as no person connected with the inn had been employed for that purpose. On the fourth day, after breakfast, and as Pat Sharpe--by which version of his name he was sometimes addressed--was about to take away the things, his guest entered into conversation with him as follows: “Paudeen, my good friend, can you tell me where the wild, ragged fellow, called Fenton, could be found?” “I can, sir. Fenton? Begorra, you'd hardly know him if you seen him; he's as smooth as a new pin--has a plain, daicent suit o' clothes on him. It's whispered about among us this long time, that, if he had his rights, he'd be entitled to a great property; and some people say now that he has come into a part of it.” “And pray, what else do they say of him?” “Wiry, then, I heard Father M'Mahon himself say that he had great learnin', an' must a' had fine broughten-up, an' could, act the real gintleman whenever he wished.” “Is it known who he is, or whether he is a native of this neighborhood?” “No, sir; he doesn't belong to this neighborhood; an' the truth is, that nobody here that ever I heard of knows anything at all, barrin' guesswork, about the unfortunate poor creature. If ever he was a gintleman,” exclaimed the kind-hearted waiter, “he's surely to be pitied, when one sees the state he's brought to.” “Well, Paudeen, will you fetch him to me, if you know where he is? Say I wish to see him.” “What name, if you plaise,” asked the waiter, with assumed indifference; for the truth was, that the whole establishment felt a very natural curiosity to know who the stranger was. “Never mind the name, Paudeen, but say as I desire you.” Paudeen had no sooner disappeared than the anonymous gentleman went to one of his trunks, and, pulling out a very small miniature, surveyed it for nearly half a minute; he then looked into the fire, and seemed absorbed in long and deep reflection. At length, after once more gazing closely and earnestly at it, he broke involuntarily into the following soliloquy: