Mr Mullins leered up, fondling his hands obsequiously. The privileges of this Alsatia, it was evident, ended at the passage mouth. He was an obscene-looking old rascal, with a face like a half-blind sheep, and the gaunt framework of once powerful shoulders. “Carey is it, sir?” said he--“Carey, your honour? I remimber a lady of the name. Mither Carey we’d be afther callin’ her; but she’s gone long sin.” “When gone?” demanded the officer. “It’ll be a matther of twinty year, maybe,” said the old man. “My mimiry’s bad.” “That’s it,” I put in hurriedly, seeing the law about to protest. “It’s of her I want to know.” Mr Mullins considered me astutely from under his lids. Honour amongst thieves, sure enough; but wasn’t there such a thing as a statute of limitations to the duties one owed? Besides, a reward might be in the air. I pride myself so far on my worldly precocity, that I tipped him, moderately, on the spot. The act refreshed his memory wonderfully. “I recall she came into money, did the ould lady,” he said; “and tuk herself away. There was a daughter she’d be owning; a fine handsome girl, that had her throuble and married a lord despite. He saw her on the stage, twas said, a young jule of a thing, and lost his heart to her. But there was a parson in them days up at the tin chapel yander--Pugsley was his name, the heretic--and he made her religious--Musha! the scoundrel--and brought her ould lord to terms, and married them.” He stopped, and covertly bit the coin I had given him to test it. “And what became of the mother?” I asked, seeing that he proffered no more. “She tuk herself arrf, your honour,” said he. “You don’t know where?” “No, by the powers, I don’t; and that’s the thruth,” he said; and indeed there could be no purpose in his lying. Then I had only one other question to ask, and out it came: “Do you remember who was her partner in that--that little trouble you mentioned?” Mr Mullins leered horribly. “There was quare tales,” he said--“I recollect that same. One would call him here, and another there; and a third would be whispering of a master in the Grammar School beyant. But that was just talking. Mother Carey could be close, when she wanted.” “What was _his_ name--the master’s?” “It’s clane gone from me,” said Mr Mullins, blankly. “One might trace it out at the school itself, perhaps?” I turned to the policeman. “Gone, too,” he said. “It was all closed before my time. There’s shops there now.” So I was temporarily baffled; but, as, having invented something plausible to the men to account to them for my curiosity, I went on my way, I was taking a fierce oath in my heart that not stone nor briar, nor water nor fire should turn me now from a pursuit to which accident, or Luck if you like, had already hallooed me so promisingly. If this Mother Carey lived, she was my quarry. But where and how to find her! CHAPTER X. EDITORIAL