’The pulse is up a bit, not very much, but still I don’t like it—­and very hard, you see—­and what we’ve to dread, you know’s inflammation; and he’s so shocking low, my dear Sir, we must let him have wine and other things, or we’ll lose him that way; and you see it’s a mighty unpleasant case.’

And coming into the hall, in a loud confident voice he cried—­’And I’ll be here again by half-past one o’clock.’

And so he beckoned to the boy with his horse to come up, and chatted in the interim with Mr. Lowe upon the steps, and told him how to manage him if he grew exhausted over his narrative; and then mounting his nag, and kissing his hand and waving his hat to Mrs. Sturk, who was looking out upon him from Barney’s window, he rode away for Dublin.

Toole, on reaching town, spurred on to the dingy residence of Mr. Luke Gamble.  It must be allowed that he had no clear intention of taking any step whatsoever in consequence of what he might hear.  But the little fellow was deuced curious; and Dirty Davy’s confidence gave him a sort of right to be satisfied.

So with his whip under his arm, and a good deal out of breath, for the stairs were steep, he bounced into the attorney’s sanctum.

’Who’s that?  Is that?—­Why, bless my soul and body! ‘tis yourself,’ cried Toole, after an astonished pause of a few seconds at the door, springing forward and grasping Nutter by both hands, and shaking them vehemently, and grinning very joyously and kindly the while.

Nutter received him cordially, but a little sheepishly.  Indeed, his experiences of life, and the situations in which he had found himself since they had last met, were rather eccentric and instructive than quite pleasant to remember.  And Nutter, in his way, was a proud fellow, and neither liked to be gaped at nor pitied.

But Toole was a thorough partisan of his, and had been urgent for permission to see him in gaol, and they knew how true he had been to poor Sally Nutter, and altogether felt very much at home with him.

So sitting in that twilight room, flanked with piles of expended briefs, and surrounded with neatly docketed packets of attested copies, notices, affidavits, and other engines of legal war—­little Toole having expended his congratulations, and his private knowledge of Sturk’s revelations, fell upon the immediate subject of his visit.

’That rogue, Davy O’Reegan, looked in on me not an hour ago, at the Phoenix’ (and he gave them a very spirited, but I’m afraid a somewhat fanciful description of the combat.) ’And I’m afraid he’ll give us a deal of trouble yet.  He told me that the certificate—­’

‘Ay—­here’s a copy;’ and Luke Gamble threw a paper on the table before him.

’That’s it—­Mary Duncan—­1750—­the very thing—­the rascal!  Well, he said, you know, but I knew better, that you had admitted the certificate formally.’

‘So I have.  Sir,’ said.  Mr. Gamble, drily, stuffing his hands into his breeches’ pockets, and staring straight at Toole with elevated eyebrows, and as the little doctor thought, with a very odd expression in his eyes.