CHAPTER XII .-- Out of the Frying-Pan into the Fire.
M'Carthy on that night had not gone far, after having separated from the friendly Whiteboy, when he was met by a powerfully-formed man, who, he thought, bore a considerable resemblance in shape and size to the fellow who had been invested with authority not long before in Finnerty's.

On seeing that it was M'Carthy, the stranger, whose face was blackened, and who also wore the white shirt outside, approached him coolly but determinedly, and laying his hand upon his shoulder, said--: "Your name is Francis M'Carthy' ?" and as he spoke, M'Carthy could perceive the ends of a case of pistols projecting from his breast within the shirt, which was open at the neck.
"As I have never knowingly done anything that should occasion me to deny my name, I acknowledge it--you know me, of course." "I know you well.

I meek it a point to know everyone who is worth knowing.

In the meantime, M'Carthy, you'll come along with me, if you pleese." "It is not at all clear that I will," replied M'Carthy; "you are a perfect stranger to me--at least your disguise makes you so.

You are out on illegal business, as is evident from that disguise, and you are armed with a case of pistols.