preparing evidence in support of my client’s and her maid’s affidavit, to prove her identity with the Mary Duncan in question, having served your client—­I mane, Sir, asking your pardon again—­your friend, with a notice that such corroboratory evidence being unnecessary, we would move the court, in case it were pressed for, to give us the costs of procuring it, Mr. Luke Gamble fortwith struck, on behalf of his client, and admitted the sufficiency of the evidence.  Now, Sir, I mention these things, not as expecting you to believe them upon my statement, you see, but simply to enquire of Mr. Gamble whether they be true or no; and if true, Sir, upon his admission, then, Sir, I submit we’re entitled to your good offices, and the judicious inthurfarence of the Rev. Mr. Roach, your respectable priest, Sir.’

’My friend, Sir, not my priest.  I’m a Churchman, Sir, as everybody knows.’

’Of course, Sir—­I ask your pardon again, Doctor Toole—­Sir, your friend to induce your client—­_-friend_ I mane again, Sir—­Mistress Sarah Harty, formerly housekeeper of Mr. Charless (so he pronounced it) Nutther, gentleman, of the Mills, and so forth, to surrendher quiet and peaceable possession of the premises and chattels, and withdraw from her tortuous occupation dacently, and without provoking the consequences, which must otherwise follow in the sevarest o’ forms;’ or, as he pronounced it, ‘fawrums.’

‘The sevarest o’ grandmothers.  Humbug and flummery!  Sir,’ cried Toole, most unexpectedly incensed, and quite scarlet.

‘D’ye mane I’m a liar, Sir?  Is that what you mane?’ demanded Dirty Davy, suddenly, like the doctor, getting rid of his ceremonious politeness.

‘I mane what I mane, and that’s what I mane,’ thundered Toole, diplomatically.

‘Then, tell your friend to prepare for consequences,’ retorted Dirty Davy, with a grin.

’And make my compliments to your client, or conjuror, or wife, or whatever she is, and tell her that whenever she wants her dirty work done, there’s plenty of other Dublin blackguards to be got to do it, without coming to Docther Thomas Toole, or the Rev. Father Roach.’

Which sarcasm he delivered with killing significance, but Dirty Davy had survived worse thrusts than that.

‘She’s a conjuror, is she?  I thank you, Sir.’

‘You’re easily obliged, Sir,’ says Toole.

’We all know what that manes.  And these documents sworn to by my client and myself, is a pack o’ lies!  Betther and betther!  I thank ye again, Sir.’

‘You’re welcome, my honey,’ rejoined Toole, affectionately.

‘An’ you live round the corner.  I know your hall-door, Sir—­a light brown, wid a brass knocker.’

‘Which is a fine likeness iv your own handsome face, Sir,’ retorted Toole.

‘An’ them two documents, Sir, is a fabrication and a forgery, backed up wid false affidavits?’ continued Mr. O’Reegan.