He had
thus sixteen ruffians in his force, besides himself and the boy.
"Whose boy is that?" asked the detective, eagerly. He had been looking
closely at the lad more than once and listening to his voice.
"Ah beeslong ta Rowdon."
"Who is his mother?" asked Nash, with a strange light in his eye.
"Her's cawd Tilder."
"Is she Rawdon's wife? Speak, man!"
"Naw, nawt az aw niver heerd."
"What was her name before he--brought her there?"
"Aw donno, but t'lahd's cawd Mawnta Nehgull."
"O my God!" cried the detective, as he fell back in his chair, and
seemed to lose all power of speech.
"Come away, Nash," said the Squire, taking one arm of the stricken man,
while Mr. Errol, handing his notes to the lawyer, took the other. They
led him tenderly to the office, where Carruthers forced a glass of wine
upon him. Nash revived, and begged that the door might be closed and
locked.
"I may never have a chance to tell this again, so I want to tell it to
you two, and to you alone. My real name is Nagle, not Nash. I was born
in Hamilton, where my father was a wheelwright. I got a good schooling,
and went into a lawyer's office, for father wanted me to become a
lawyer.
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