’If you come out at nine in the morning, Dr. Dillon, you’ll find him over his letters and desk, in his breakfast parlour,’ said Toole, who, apprehending that this night’s work might possibly prove a hit for the disreputable and savage luminary, was treating him, though a good deal stung and confounded by the prodigious amount of the fee, with more ceremony than he did at first.  ‘Short accounts, you know,’ said Dillon, locking the lid of his case down upon his instruments.  ’But maybe, as you say, ’tis best to see him in the morning—­them rich fellows is often testy—­ha! ha!  An’ a word with you, Dr. Toole,’ and he beckoned his brother aside to the corner near the door—­and whispered something in his ear, and laughed a little awkwardly, and Toole, very red and grave, lent him—­with many misgivings, two guineas.

‘An’ see—­don’t let them give him too much of that—­the chicken broth’s too sthrong—­put some wather to that, Miss, i’ you plaze—­and give him no more to-night—­d’ye mind—­than another half a wine-glass full of clar’t unless the docthor here tells you.’

So Dr. Dillon took leave, and his fiery steeds, whirling him onward, devoured, with their resounding hoofs, the road to Dublin, where he had mentally devoted Toole’s two guineas to the pagan divinities whose worship was nightly celebrated at the old St. Columbkill.

‘We had best have it in the shape of a deposition, Sir, at once,’ said Lowe, adjusting himself at the writing-table by the bed-side, and taking the pen in his fingers, he looked on the stern and sunken features of the resuscitated doctor, recalled, as it were, from ’the caverns of the dead and the gates of darkness,’ to reveal an awful secret, and point his cold finger at the head of the undiscovered murderer.

‘Tell it as shortly as you can, Sir, but without haste,’ said Toole, with his finger on his pulse.  Sturk looked dismal and frightened, like a man with the hangman at his elbow.

’It was that d—­d villain—­Charles Archer—­write that down—­’twas a foul blow—­Sir, I’m murdered—­I suppose.’

And then came a pause.

’Give me a spoonful of wine—­I was coming out of town at dusk—­this evening—­’

‘No, Sir; you’re here some time, stunned and unconscious.’

‘Eh! how long?’

‘No matter, Sir, now.  Just say the date of the night it happened.’

Sturk uttered a deep groan.

‘Am I dying?’ said he.

‘No, Sir, please goodness—­far from it,’ said Toole.

‘Fracture?’ asked Sturk, faintly.

’Why—­yes—­something of the sort—­indeed—­altogether a fracture; but going on mighty well, Sir.’

‘Stabbed anywhere—­or gunshot wound?’ demanded Sturk.

‘Nothing of the kind, Sir, upon my honour.’

‘You think—­I have a chance?’ and Sturk’s cadaverous face was moist with the dews of an awful suspense.

‘Chance,’ said Toole, in an encouraging tone, ’well, I suppose you have, Sir—­ha, ha!  But, you know, you must not tire yourself, and we hope to have you on your legs again, Sir, in a reasonable time.’