into his private room just as a gentleman--whom I knew well enough by
sight as an Irish lawyer of more reputation than he deserved--was
leaving.

My uncle was slowly rubbing his hands together and considering. I
was there two or three minutes before he spoke. Then he told me that
I must pack up my portmanteau that very afternoon, and start that
night by post-horse for West Chester. I should get there, if all
went well, at the end of five days' time, and must then wait for a
packet to cross over to Dublin; from thence I must proceed to a
certain town named Kildoon, and in that neighbourhood I was to
remain, making certain inquiries as to the existence of any
descendants of the younger branch of a family to whom some valuable
estates had descended in the female line. The Irish lawyer whom I
had seen was weary of the case, and would willingly have given up the
property, without further ado, to a man who appeared to claim them;
but on laying his tables and trees before my uncle, the latter had
foreseen so many possible prior claimants, that the lawyer had begged
him to undertake the management of the whole business. In his youth,
my uncle would have liked nothing better than going over to Ireland
himself, and ferreting out every scrap of paper or parchment, and
every word of tradition respecting the family. As it was, old and
gouty, he deputed me.

Accordingly, I went to Kildoon. I suspect I had something of my
uncle's delight in following up a genealogical scent, for I very soon
found out, when on the spot, that Mr. Rooney, the Irish lawyer, would
have got both himself and the first claimant into a terrible scrape,
if he had pronounced his opinion that the estates ought to be given
up to him. There were three poor Irish fellows, each nearer of kin