Maurice Scanlan, meanwhile, scanned the recumbent figure before him with the eye of a connoisseur. We have once before said that Mr. Scanlan's jockey experiences had marvellously aided his worldly craft, and that he scrutinized those with whom he came in contact through life, with all the shrewd acumen he would have bestowed upon a horse whose purchase he meditated. It was easy to see that the investigation puzzled him. Mr. Merl did not belong to any one category he had ever seen before. Maurice was acquainted with various ranks and conditions of men; but here was a new order, not referable to any known class. He opened Captain Martin's letter, which he carried in his pocket-book, and re-read it; but it was vague and uninstructive. He merely requested that “every attention might be paid to his friend Mr. Merl, who wanted to see something of the West, and know all about the condition of the people, and such like. He's up to everything, Master Maurice,” continued the writer, “and so just the man for _you_.” There was little to be gleaned from this source, and so he felt, as he folded and replaced the epistle in his pocket. “What can he be,” thought Scanlan, “and what brings him down here? Is he a member of Parliament, that wants to make himself up about Ireland and Irish grievances? Is he a money-lender, that wants to see the security before he makes a loan? Are they thinking of him for the agency?”--and Maurice flushed as the suspicion crossed him,--“or is it after Miss Mary he is?” And a sudden paleness covered his face at the thought. “I 'd give a cool hundred, this minute, if I could read you,” said he to himself, “Ay, and I'd not ask any one's help how to deal with us afterwards,” added he, as he drained off his glass. While he was thus ruminating, a gentle tap was heard at the door, and, anxious not to disturb the sleeper, Scanlan crossed the room with noiseless steps, and opened it. [Illustration: 124] “Oh, it's you, Simmy,” said he, in a low voice. “Come in, and make no noise; he's asleep.” “And that's him!” said Crow, standing still to gaze on the recumbent figure before him, which he scrutinized with all an artist's appreciation. “Ay, and what do you think of him?” whispered Scanlan. “That chap is a Jew,” said Sim, in the same cautious tone. “I know the features well; you see the very image of him in the old Venetian pictures. Whenever they wanted cunning and cruelty--but more cunning than cruelty--they always took that type.” “I would n't wonder if you were right, Simmy,” said Scanlan, on whom a new light was breaking. “I know I am; look at the spread of the nostrils, and the thick, full lips, and the coarse, projecting under-jaw. Faix!” said he to himself, “I 've seen the day I 'd like to have had a study of your face.” “Indeed!” said Scanlan.