’And do you really think it will?  Oh, doctor, doctor, do you think it will?  The last two or three nights and days—­how many is it?—­oh, my poor head—­it seems like a month since he went away.’

‘And where do you think he is?  Do you think it’s business?’

’Of course ‘tis business, Ma’am.’

‘And—­and—­oh, doctor!—­you really think he’s safe?’

‘Of course, Madam, he’s safe—­what’s to ail him?’

And Toole rummaged amongst the old medicine phials on the chimneypiece, turning their labels round and round, but neither seeing them nor thinking about them, and only muttering to himself with, I’m sorry to say, a curse here and there.

’You see, my dear Ma’am, you must keep yourself as quiet as you can, or physic’s thrown away upon you; you really must,’ said Toole.

‘But doctor,’ pleaded the poor lady, ’you don’t know—­I—­I’m terrified—­I—­I—­I’ll never be the same again,’ and she burst into hysterical crying.

’Now, really, Madam—­confound it—­my dear, good lady—­you see—­this will never do’—­he was uncorking and smelling at the bottles in search of ’the drops’—­’and—­and—­here they are—­and isn’t it better, Ma’am, you should be well and hearty—­here drink this—­when—­when he comes back—­don’t you see—­than—­a—­a—­’

’But—­oh, I wish I could tell you.  She said—­she said—­the—­the—­oh, you don’t know—­’

‘She—­who? Who said what?’ cried Toole, lending his ear, for he never refused a story.

’Oh!  Doctor, he’s gone—­I’ll never—­never—­I know I’ll never see him again.  Tell me he’s not gone—­tell me I’ll see him again.’

’Hang it, can’t she stick to one thing at a time—­the poor woman’s half out of her wits,’ said Toole, provoked; ’I’ll wager a dozen of claret there’s more on her mind than she’s told to anyone.’

Before he could bring her round to the subject again, the doctor was called down to Lowe; so he took his leave for the present; and after his talk with the magistrate, he did not care to go up again to poor little Mrs. Nutter; and Moggy was as white as ashes standing by, for Mr. Lowe had just made her swear to her little story about the shoes; and Toole walked home to the village with a heavy heart, and a good deal out of humour.

Toole knew that a warrant would be issued next day against Nutter.  The case against him was black enough.  Still, even supposing he had struck those trenchant blows over Sturk’s head, it did not follow that it was without provocation or in cold blood.  It looked, however, altogether so unpromising, that he would have been almost relieved to hear that Nutter’s body had been found drowned in the river.