‘Pray take a chair, Ma’am,’ said Mrs. Mack, with a pallid face and a low courtesy.

Mistress Matchwell made a faint courtesy in return, and, without saying anything, sat down, and peered sharply round the room.

’I’m glad, Ma’am, you had no dust to-day; the rain, Ma’am, laid it beautiful.’

The grim woman in black threw back her hood a little, and showed her pale face and thin lips, and prominent black eyes, altogether a grisly and intimidating countenance, with something wild and suspicious in it, suiting by no means ill with her supernatural and malign pretensions.

Mrs. Mack’s ear was strained to catch the sound of Toole’s approach, and a pause ensued, during which she got up and poured out a glass of port for the lady, and she presented it to her deferentially.  She took it with a nod, and sipped it, thinking, as it seemed, uneasily.  There was plainly something more than usual upon her mind.  Mrs. Mack thought—­indeed, she was quite sure—­she heard a little fussing about the bed-room door, and concluded that the doctor was getting under cover.

When Mrs. Matchwell had set her empty glass upon the table, she glided to the window, and Mrs. Mack’s guilty conscience smote her, as she saw her look towards Toole’s house.  It was only, however, for the coach; and having satisfied herself it was at hand, she said—­

’We’ll have some minutes quite private, if you please—­’tisn’t my affair, you know, but yours,’ said the weird woman.

There had been ample time for the arrangement of Toole’s ambuscade.  Now was the moment.  The crisis was upon her.  But poor Mrs. Mack, just as she was about to say her little say about the front windows and opposite neighbours, and the privacy of the back bed-room, and to propose their retiring thither, felt a sinking of the heart—­a deadly faintness, and an instinctive conviction that she was altogether overmatched, and that she could not hope to play successfully any sort of devil’s game with that all-seeing sorceress.  She had always thought she was a plucky woman till she met Mistress Mary.  Before her her spirit died within her—­her blood flowed hurriedly back to her heart, leaving her body cold, pale, and damp, and her soul quailing under her gaze.

She cleared her voice twice, and faltered an enquiry, but broke down in panic; and at that moment Biddy popped in her head—­

‘The doctor, Ma’am, was sent for to Lucan, an’ he won’t be back till six o’clock, an’ he left no peppermint drops for you, Ma’am, an’ do you want me, if you plase, Ma’am?’

‘Go down, Biddy, that’ll do,’ said Mrs. Mack, growing first pale, and then very red.

Mary Matchwell scented death afar off; for her the air was always tainted with ominous perfumes.  Every unusual look or dubious word thrilled her with a sense of danger.  Suspicion is the baleful instinct of self-preservation with which the devil gifts his children; and hers never slept.