Our narrative now passes to the house of Poll Doolin, which was situated in a row of cottages towards the north side of Castle Cumber.  Her son Raymond and she were its only inmates, and the former was in the act of replacing a hat among the tria juncta in uno, which he always wore.

“Raymond,” said his mother, “now that you’ve got your supper, you must keep house till I come back.”

“Must I indeed?—–­why must I? answer me that, there now, that’s one.”

“Becase I’m goin’ out on business.”

“What business?—­where to?—­what brought Phil M’Clutchy here yestherday?—­tell me that—­eh?”

“Oh, I couldn’t tell you that, Raymond.”

“Don’t do anything for Phil, he’s Val’s son, that keeps the blood-hounds.  Ah, poor Brian, and his white head—­no’, he’ll never waken—­never waken—­an’ what has she now to look at!  Mother, I’d give all the cocks I ever had to see him and his white head in his mother’s arms again—­God’s curse on Val!  God’s curse on him!  I hate him—­I hate Phil—­I hate all of them—­don’t mother; do nothing for them.”

“You foolish boy, what do you know about it?—­keep the house till I come back, and I’ll bring you a pennyworth of tobaccy?”

“But you will go?” said Raymond.

“I must, you fool.”

“Very well, then, take it out o’ that—­there now, that’s one.”

It was now drawing on towards dusk, and Poll, assuming her black bonnet, and throwing her black cloak about her shoulders, sallied out with that furtive air which always accompanies one who is conscious of something that requires concealment.  Her motions always were rapid, but on this occasion she walked like one whose mind brooded lover difficulties—­sometimes she went very quick, then slackened her pace, and once or twice stood still, musing with her right hand to her chin.  At length she reached the residence of Brian M’Loughlin, just after night had set it—­she entered not, but glided about the house, waited, watched, listened, and peeped into the house, very like a thief that was setting the premises.  Ultimately she took her stand at a particular window in the rear of the building, where she kept watch with great patience, though for what purpose it would appear very difficult to guess.  Patience, however, is often rewarded, and it was so in the case before us.  After about half an hour a light fell through the glass, and Poll, availing herself of the opportunity, tapped gently:  at first it was not noticed, and she tapped again, somewhat louder; this was successful—­a gentle voice inquired in tones more of surprise than alarm, “who is there, and what is your business!”

“A friend,” said Poll.

“Poll Doolin!”

“The same, and I’m here on a case of life and death.  Could you come out for a start—­three minutes will do.”

“Certainly not—­you trifled unnecessarily with my feelings before—­I will have no more mysteries.  I can raise the window, however, and anything you have to say can be said where we stand.”  She raised the sash as she spoke.  “Now,” said she “what is your business, Poll?”