“The very fellow!” cried Talbot; for at the moment a passing gleam of light fell upon the figure, and marked it out distinctly. “There is something about him I can half recognize myself,” said Mark; “but he is so muffled up with great-coat and cravat, I cannot clearly distinguish him.” “Indeed! Do, for heaven's sake, think of where you saw him, and when, Mark; for I own my anxiety about him is more than common.” “I'll soon find out for you,” said Mark, suddenly seizing his hat;--but at the same instant the door opened, and a waiter appeared. “There's a gentleman below stairs, Mr. Talbot, would be glad to speak a few words with you.” Talbot motioned, by an almost imperceptible gesture, that Mark should retire into the adjoining room; and then, approaching the waiter, asked, in a low cautious voice, if the stranger were known to him. “No, sir--never saw him before. He seems like one from the country: Mr. Crossley says he's from the south.” “Show him up,” said Talbot, hurriedly; and, as the waiter left the room, he seated himself in his chair, in an attitude of well-assumed carelessness and ease. This was scarcely done, when the stranger entered, and closed the door behind him. “Good evening to you, Mr. Talbot. I hope I see your honor well,” said he, in an accent of very unmistakable Kerry Doric. “Good evening to you, friend,” replied Talbot. “My memory is not so good as yours, or I'd call you by your name also.” “I'm Lanty Lawler, sir--that man that sold your honor the dark chesnut mare down in the county Kerry, last winter. I was always wishing to see your honor again, by reason of that same. “How so?” said Talbot, getting suddenly paler, but with no other appearance of emotion in his manner. “Was not our contract honestly concluded at the time?” “It was, sir--there's no doubt of it. Your honor paid like a gentleman, and in goold besides;--but that's just the business I come about here. It was French money you gave me, and I got into trouble about it--some saying that I was a spy, and others making out that I was, maybe, worse; and so I thought I wouldn't pass any more of it, till I seen yourself, and maybe you'd change it for me.” While he was speaking, Talbot's eye never wandered from him--not fixed, indeed, with any seeming scrutiny, but still intently watching every play of his features. “You told me at the time, however, that French gold was just as convenient to you as English,” said he, smiling good-humouredly, “and from the company I met you in, I found no difficulty in believing you.” “The times is changed, sir,” said Lanty, sighing. “God help us--we must do the best we can.” This evasive answer seemed perfectly to satisfy Talbot, who assented with a shake of the head, as he said-- “Very well, Lanty; if you will come here to-morrow, I'll exchange your gold for you.”