“I did, though I inquired half a dozen times. When I found it, the direction of the man who called me came up to my mind. The fact is, Mr. Birch, I have so many of these directions in my head, that I ought not to be expected to remember them. More than this, I did ask the parties for the name; but as the matter wasn’t all right with them, my question was evaded by suddenly turning my attention to the patient. It is the last house on the left-hand side of the road. Good morning, gentlemen;” and the doctor gave the reins to his spirited horse, and away he went. “We are too late, Hungerford,” said Dick, impatiently. “He has fixed the matter to suit his own purposes; told them what to say, and paid them for saying it.” “But if there is anything out of the way, we will probe it. I will send for one of those detectives, skilled in working up affairs of this sort.” “We will go to the house, and see what we can make of it,” said Dick. Eugene drove to the last house on the left, and both of the gentlemen went in. The dwelling, which was one of the meanest in the Settlement, was occupied by one Sandy McGuire, an Irishman, who had married an American woman at least ten years his senior. The character of both was “below par;” or, rather, they had nothing that could pass for character among decent people. Sandy lived by his wits--that is, by stealing and depredating upon exposed property. His wife had been a nurse before her ill-assorted marriage; but then and now she drank more liquor than a woman or a man should drink, and had fallen into disrepute before she became Mrs. McGuire, and had continued in disrepute since. Hungerford knew something about the couple, and gave what information he possessed to Dick, who observed that Dr. Bilks had well chosen his subjects. They went in, and found Mr. and Mrs. McGuire on better terms with each other than they usually were, according to the speech of people. “Take a sate, gintlemin,” said Sandy, with the utmost suavity in his tone and manner. “The likes of me don’t often say sich fine gintlemin in me own house.” “We come on business,” added Dick. “What bishness could the likes o’ you have wid the likes o’ me? Isn’t Misther Hungerford the richest man in the wurld?” “Was there a child born in this house night before last?” demanded Dick, impatiently. “Troth there was, thin! And the poor babby died just afther the docther go’n,” replied Sandy, promptly. “Was it your child?” “Ish’t me! ’Pon me life it wasn’t thin.” “Whose was it?” “Faix, yous may well ax that; but it’s a better man nor me that can answer yous.” “Who was the mother?” “Sorra one bit o’ me can tell yous, thin. It’s Mistress McGuire that can tell yous all about it. I’m a poor man, your honor, and whin I gits a shance to make an honist pinny, it isn’t the likes o’ me that can turn me bachk upon it.”