Away went Mary Matchwell with her prize, leaving an odour of brandy behind her.  Her dingy and sinister squire performed his clumsy courtesies, and without looking to the right or left, climbed into the coach after her, with his red trunk in his hand; and the vehicle was again in motion, and jingling on at a fair pace in the direction of Nutter’s house, The Mills, where her last visit had ended so tragically.

Now, it so happened that just as this coach, with its sombre occupants, drew up at The Mills, Doctor Toole was standing on the steps, giving Moggy a parting injunction, after his wont; for poor little Mrs. Nutter had been thrown into a new paroxysm by the dreadful tidings of her Charlie’s death, and was now lying on her bed, and bathing the pillow in her tears.

’Is this the tenement called the Mills, formerly in the occupation of the late Charles Nutter—­eh?’ demanded the gentleman, thrusting his face from the window, before the coachman had got to the door.

‘It is, Sir,’ replied Toole, putting Moggy aside, and suspecting, he could not tell what amiss, and determined to show front, and not averse from hearing what the visit was about.  ’But Mrs. Nutter is very far from well, Sir; in fact, in her bed-chamber, Sir, and laid upon her bed.’

‘Mrs. Nutter’s here, Sir,’ said the man phlegmatically.  He had just got out on the ground before the door, and extended his hand toward Mary Matchwell, whom he assisted to alight.

’This is Mrs. Nutter, relict of the late Charles Nutter, of The Mills, Knockmaroon, in the parish of Chapelizod.’

‘At your service, Sir,’ said Mary Matchwell, dropping a demure courtesy, and preparing to sail by him.

‘Not so fast, Ma’am, if you please,’ said Toole, astonished, but still sternly and promptly enough.  ’In with you, Moggy, and bar the kitchen door.’

And shoving the maid back, he swung the door to, with a slam.  He was barely in time, and Mary Matchwell, baffled and pale, confronted the doctor, with the devil gleaming from her face.

‘Who are you, man, that dare shut my own door in my face?’ said the beldame.

‘Toole’s my name, Madam,’ said the little doctor, with a lofty look and a bow.  ‘I have the honour to attend here in a professional capacity.’

‘Ho! a village attorney,’ cried the fortune-teller, plainly without having consulted the cards or the planets.  ’Well, Sir, you’d better stand aside, for I am the Widow Nutter, and this is my house; and burn me, but one way or another, in I’ll get.’

’You’d do well to avoid a trespass, Ma’am, and better to abstain from house breaking; and you may hammer at the knocker till you’re tired, but they’ll not let you in,’ rejoined Toole.  ’And as to you being the Widow Nutter, Ma’am, that is widow of poor Charles Nutter, lately found drowned, I’ll be glad to know, Ma’am, how you make that out.’