When Mr. Merl had just penned the last sentence, the door slowly and cautiously was opened behind him, and a very much carbuncled face protruded into the room. “Yes, that's himself,” muttered a voice; and ere Merl had been able to detect the speaker, the door was closed. These casual interruptions to his privacy had so frequently occurred since the commencement of his tour, that he only included them amongst his other Irish “disagreeables;” and so he was preparing to enter on another paragraph, when a very decisive knock at the door startled him, and before he could say “Come in,” a tall, red-faced, vulgar-looking man, somewhat stooped in the shoulders, and with that blear-eyed watery expression so distinctive in hard drinkers, slowly entered, and shutting the door behind him, advanced to the fire. “My name, sir, is Brierley,” said he, with a full, rich brogue. “Brierley--Brierley--never heard of Brierley before,” said Mr. Merl, affecting a flippant ease that was very remote from his heart. “Better late than never, sir,” rejoined the other, coolly seating himself, and crossing his arms on his breast. “I have come here on the part of my friend Tom,--Mr. Magennis, I mean,--of Barnagheela, who told me to track you out.” “Much obliged, I'm sure, for the attention,” said Merl, with an assumed smartness. “That 's all right; so you should,” continued Brierley. “Tom told me that you were present at Cro' Martin when he was outraged and insulted,--by a female of course, or he wouldn't be making a complaint of it now,--and as he is not the man that ever lay under a thing of the kind, or ever will, he sent me here to you, to arrange where you 'd like to have it, and when.” “To have what?” asked Merl, with a look of unfeigned terror. “Baythershin! how dull we are!” said Mr. Brierley, with a finger to his very red nose. “Sure it's not thinking of the King's Bench you are, that you want me to speak clearer.” “I want to know your meaning, sir,--if you have a meaning.” “Be cool, honey; keep yourself cool. Without you happen to find that warmth raises your heart, I 'd say again, be cool. I've one simple question to ask you,”--here he dropped his voice to a low, cautious whisper,--“Will ye blaze?” “Will I what?” cried Merl. Mr. Brierley arose, and drawing himself up to his full height, extended his arm in the attitude of one taking aim with a pistol. “Eh!” cried he, “you comprehend me now, don't you?” “Fight--fight a duel!” exclaimed Merl, aloud. “Whisht! whisht! speak lower,” said Brierley; “there's maybe a chap listening at the door this minute!” Accepting the intimation in a very different spirit from that in which it was offered, Merl rushed to the door, and threw it wide open. “Waiter!--landlord!--house!--waiter!” screamed he, at the top of his voice. And in an instant three or four slovenly-looking fellows, with dirty napkins in dirtier hands, surrounded him. “What is it, your honer?--what is it?” asked they, in a breath.