No sooner had he mentioned the fact than the interests of the company, directed before into so many different channels, became centred upon the circumstance, and questions and inquiries were rapidly poured in upon him to explain the exact nature of the wager, which in the then hallucination of the party was not an over-easy task. “You are to describe the stranger, Captain Forester, and we are to guess his name: that I take it is the substance of the bet,” said a thin-faced, dark-eyed man, with a soft silkiness of accent very unlike the others. This was Mr. Hickman O'Reilly, member for the county, and colleague of “the Knight” himself. “Yes, that is exactly what I mean. If my portrait be recognized, I 've won my bet.” “May I ask another question?” said Mr. O'Reilly. “Are we to pronounce only from the evidence before us, or are we at liberty to guess the party from other circumstances known to ourselves?” “Of course, from the evidence only,” interrupted a red-faced man of about five-and-thirty, with an air and manner which boded no small reliance on his own opinion; then, mimicking the solemnity of a judge, he addressed the assembled party thus: “The gentlemen of the jury will dismiss from their minds everything they may hear touching the case outside this court, and base their verdict solely on the testimony they shall now hear.” These few words were delivered in a pompous and snuffling tone, and, it was easy to see, from the laughter they excited, were an accurate imitation of some one well known to the company. Mr. Alexander MacDonough was, however, a tolerably successful mimic, and had practised as an attorney until the death of an uncle enabled him to exercise his abilities in the not less crafty calling of a squireen gentleman; he was admitted by a kind of special favor into the best county society, for no other reason, as it seemed, than that it never occurred to any one to exclude him. He was a capital horseman, never turned from a fence in his life, and a noted shot with the pistol, in which his prowess had been more than once tried on “the ground.” Probably, however, these qualities would scarcely have procured him acceptance where he now sat, if it were not that he was looked upon as the necessary accompaniment of Mr. Hickman O'Reilly and his son Beecham, not indeed to illustrate their virtues and display their good gifts, but as a species of moral blister, irritating and maddening them eternally. They had both more money and ambition than MacDonough, had taken higher and wider views of life, and were strenuously working up from the slough of a plebeian origin to the high and dry soil of patrician security. To them, MacDonough was a perfect curse; he was what sailors call “a point of departure,” everlastingly reminding them of the spot from which they had sailed, and tauntingly hinting how, with all their canvas spread, they had scarcely gained blue water.