S. I have just remembered his name. It was Potts; the villain said
from the Pozzo di Borgo family. I 'm sure with this hint you can't fail
to run him to earth; and I entreat of you spare no pains to do it."

There followed here some more impertinent personalities as clews to my
discovery, which my indulgent reader will graciously excuse me if I do
not stop to record; enough to say they were as unfounded as they were
scurrilous.

Another and very different train of thought, however, soon banished
these considerations. This letter had been given me by Crofton, who had
already read it; he had perused all this insolent narrative about
me before handing it to me, and doubtless, in so doing, had no other
intention than to convey, in the briefest and most emphatic way to me,
that I was found out. It was simply saying, in the shortest possible
space, "Thou art the man!" Oh, the ineffable shame and misery of that
thought! Oh, the bitterness of feeling! How my character should now be
viewed and my future discussed! "Only think, Mary," I fancied I heard
him say,--"only think who our friend should turn out to be,--this same
Potts: the fellow that vanquished Father Dyke in story-telling, and
outlied the priest! And here we have been lavishing kindness and
attentions upon one who, after all, is little better than a swindler,
sailing under false colors and fictitious credentials; for who can now
credit one syllable about his having written those verses he read for
us, or composed that tale of which he told us the opening? What a lesson
in future about extending confidence to utter strangers! What caution
and reserve should it not teach us! How guarded should we be not to
suffer ourselves to be fascinated by the captivations of manner and the
insinuating charms of address! If Potts had been less prepossessing
in appearance, less gifted and agreeable,--if, instead of being a
consummate man of the world, with the breeding of a courtier and the
knowledge of a scholar, he had been a pedantic puppy with a lisp and a
Dublin accent--" Oh, ignominy and disgrace! these were the very words
of the priest in describing me, which came so aptly to my memory, and I
grew actually sick with shame as I recalled them. I next became angry.
Was this conduct of Crofton's delicate or considerate? Was it becoming
in one who had treated me as his friend thus abruptly to conclude our
intimacy by an insult? Handing me such a letter was saying, "There's a
por