'It seems to me, Sir, you might have given some of poor Mrs. Nutter's friends at Chapelizod a hint of the state of things. I, Sir, and Father Roach--we've meddled, Sir, more in the business--than--than--but no matter now--and all under a delusion, Sir. And poor Mistress Sally Nutter--_she_ doesn't seem to trouble you much, Sir.'

He observed that the attorney was chuckling to himself still more and more undisguisedly, as he slipped the notice back again into its place.

'You gentlemen of the law think of nothing, Sir, but your clients. I suppose 'tis a good rule, but it may be pushed somewhat far. And what do you propose to do for poor Mistress Sally Nutter?' demanded Toole, very sternly, for his blood was up.

'She has heard from us this morning,' said Mr. Gamble, grining on his watch, 'and she knows all by this time, and 'tisn't a b.u.t.ton to her.'

And the attorney laughed in his face; and Nutter who had looked sulky and uncomfortable, could resist no longer, and broke into a queer responsive grin. It seemed to Toole like a horrid dream.

There was a tap at the door just at this moment.

'Come in,' cried Mr. Gamble, still exploding in comfortable little bursts of half-suppressed laughter.

'Oh! 'tis you? Very good, Sir,' said Mr. Gamble, sobering a little. He was the same lanky, vulgar, and slightly-squinting gentleman, pitted with the small-pox, whom Toole had seen on a former occasion. And the little doctor thought he looked even more cunning and meaner than before. Everything had grown to look repulsive, and every face was sinister now; and the world began to look like a horrible masquerade, full of half-detected murderers, traitors, and miscreants.

'There isn't a soul you can trust--'tis enough to turn a man's head; 'tis sickening, by George!' grumbled the little doctor, fiercely.

'Here's a gentleman, Sir,' said Gamble, waving his pen towards Toole, with a chuckle, 'who believes that ladies like to recover their husbands.'

The fellow grew red, and grinned a sly uneasy grin, looking stealthily at Toole, who was rapidly growing angry.

'Yes, Sir, and one who believes, too, that gentlemen ought to protect their wives,' added the little doctor hotly.

'As soon as they know who they are,' muttered the attorney to his papers.

'I think, gentlemen, I'm rather in your way,' said Toole with a gloomy briskness; 'I think 'tis better I should go. I--I'm somewhat amazed, gentlemen, and I--I wish you a good-morning.'

And Toole made them a very stern bow, and walked out at the wrong door.

'This way, by your leave, doctor,' said Mr. Gamble, opening the right one; and at the head of the stairs he took Toole by the cuff, and said he--

'After all, 'tis but just the wrong Mrs. Nutter should give place to the right; and if you go down to the Mills to-morrow, you'll find she's by no means so bad as you think her.'

But Toole broke away from him sulkily, with--

'I wish you a good-morning, Sir.'

It was quite true that Sally Nutter was to hear from Charles and Mr.

Gamble that morning; for about the time at which Toole was in conference with those two gentlemen in Dublin, two coaches drew up at the Mills.

Mr. Gamble's conducting gentleman was in one, and two mysterious personages sat in the other.

'I want to see Mrs. Nutter,' said Mr. Gamble's emissary.

'Mrs. Nutter's in the parlour, at your service,' answered the lean maid who had opened the door, and who recognising in that gentleman an adherent of the enemy, had a.s.sumed her most impertinent leer and tone on the instant.

The amba.s.sador looked in and drew back.

'Oh, then, 'tisn't the mistress you want, but the master's old housekeeper; ask _her_.'

And she pointed with her thumb towards Molly, whose head was over the banister.

So, as he followed that honest hand-maiden up stairs, he drew from his coat-pocket a bundle of papers, and glanced at their endors.e.m.e.nts, for he had a long exposition to make, and then some important measures to execute.

Toole had to make up for lost time; and as he rode at a smart canter into the village, he fancied he observed the signs of an unusual excitement there. There were some faces at the windows, some people on the door-steps; and a few groups in the street; they were all looking in the Dublin direction. He had a nod or two as he pa.s.sed. Toole thought forthwith of Mr. David O'Reegan--people generally refer phenomena to what most concerns themselves--and a dim horror of some unknown summary process dismayed him; but his hall-door shone peaceably in the sun, and his boy stood whistling on the steps, with his hands in his pockets.

n.o.body had been there since, and Pell had not yet called at Sturk's.

'And what's happened--what's the neighbours lookin' after?' said Toole, as his own glance followed the general direction, so soon as he had dismounted.

''Twas a coach that had driven through the town, at a thundering pace, with some men inside, from the Knockmaroon direction, and a lady that was screeching. She broke one of the coach windows in Martin's-row, and the other--_there_, just opposite the Phoenix.' The gla.s.s was glittering on the road. 'She had rings on her hand, and her knuckles were bleeding, and it was said 'twas poor Mrs. Nutter going away with the keepers to a mad-house.'

Toole turned pale and ground his teeth, looking towards Dublin.

'I pa.s.sed it myself near Island-bridge; I did hear screeching, but I thought 'twas from t'other side of the wall. There was a fellow in an old blue and silver coat with the driver--eh?'

'The same,' said the boy; and Toole, with difficulty swallowing down his rage, hurried into the house, resolved to take Lowe's advice on the matter, and ready to swear to poor Sally's perfect sanity--'the crature!--the villains!'

But now he had only a moment to pull off his boots, to get into his grand costume, and seize his cane and his m.u.f.f, too--for he sported one; and so transformed and splendid, he marched down the paved _trottoir_--Doctor Pell happily not yet arrived--to Sturk's house. There was a hackney coach near the steps.

CHAPTER XCV.

IN WHICH DOCTOR PELL DECLINES A FEE, AND DOCTOR STURK A PRESCRIPTION.

In entering the front parlour from whence, in no small excitement, there issued the notes of a course diapason, which he fancied was known to him, he found Mr. Justice Lowe in somewhat tempestuous conference with the visitor.

He was, in fact, no other than Black Dillon; black enough he looked just now. He had only a moment before returned from a barren visit to the Bra.s.s Castle, and was in no mood to be trifled with.

''Twasn't _I_, Sir, but Mr. Dangerfield, who promised you five hundred guineas,' said Mr. Lowe, with a dry nonchalance.

'Five hundred fiddles,' retorted Doctor Dillon--his phrase was coa.r.s.er, and Toole at that moment entering the door, and divining the situation from the doctor's famished glare and wild gestures, exploded, I'm sorry to say in a momentary burst of laughter, into his c.o.c.ked hat. 'Twas instantly stifled, however; and when Dillon turned his flaming eyes upon him, the little doctor made him a bow of superlative gravity, which the furious hero of the trepan was too full of his wrongs to notice in any way.

'I was down at his house, bedad, the "Bra.s.s Castle," if you plase, and not a bra.s.s farthin' for my pains, nothing there but an ould woman, as ould and as ugly as himself, or the divil--be gannies! An' he's levanted, or else tuck for debt. Bra.s.s Castle! bra.s.s _forehead_, bedad.

Bra.s.s, like Goliath, from head to heels; an' by the heels he's laid, I'll take my davy, considherin' at his laysure which is strongest--a bra.s.s castle or a stone jug. An' where, Sir, am I to get my five hundred guineas--where, Sir?' he thundered, staring first in Lowe's face, then in Toole's, and dealing the table a l.u.s.ty blow at each interrogatory.

'I think, Sir,' said Lowe, antic.i.p.ating Toole, 'you'd do well to consider the sick man, Sir.' The noise was certainly considerable.

'I don't know, Sir, that the sick man's considherin' me much,' retorted Doctor Dillon. 'Sick man--sick grandmother's aunt! If you can't speak like a man o' sense, _don't_ spake, at any rate, like a justice o' the pace. Sick man, indeed! why there's not a crature livin' barrin' a natural eediot, or an apothecary, that doesn't know the man's dead; he's _dead_, Sir; but 'tisn't so with me, an' I can't get on without vittles, and vittles isn't to be had without money; that's logic, Mr. Justice; that's a medical fact Mr. Docthor. An' how am I to get my five hundred guineas? I say, _you_ and _you_--the both o' ye--that prevented me of going last night to his bra.s.s castle--bra.s.s snuff-box--there isn't room to stand in it, bedad--an' gettin' my money. I hold you both liable to me--one an' t'other--the both o' ye.'

'Why, Sir,' said Lowe, ''tis a honorarium.'

''Tis no such thing, Sir; 'tis a contract,' thundered Dillon, pulling Dangerfield's note of promise from his pocket, and dealing it a mighty slap with the back of his hand.

'Contract or no, Sir, there's n.o.body liable for it but himself.'