e, in a sort of shriek, cry
out that name--holy and awful--which we do not mix in tales like this.
It was Sturk's voice; and he cried in the same horrid shriek,
'Murder--mercy--Mr. Archer!'

And poor Mrs. Sturk, with a loud hysterical cry, that quivered with her
agony, answered from without, and wildly rattled at the door-handle, and
pushed with all her feeble force to get in, in a kind of crescendo
screaming--'Oh, Barney--Barney--_Barney--sweetheart_--what are they
_doing_?'

'Oh! blessed hour!--Ma'am--'tis the master himself that is talking;' and
with a very pale face the maid, who stood in the doorway beside her,
uttered her amazed thanksgiving.

And the doctors' voices were now heard plainly enough soothing the
patient, and he seemed to have grown more collected; and she heard
him--she thought--repeat a snatch of a prayer, as a man might just
rescued from a shipwreck; and he said in a tone more natural in one so
sick and weak, 'I'm a dead man--he's done it--where is he?--he's
murdered me.'

'Who?' demanded Toole's well-known voice.

'Archer--the villain--Charles Archer.'

'Give me the cup with the claret and water, and the spoon--there it is,'
said Dillon's rough bass tones.

And she heard the maid's step crossing the floor, and then there was a
groan from Sturk.

'Here, take another spoonful, and don't mind talking for a while. It's
doing mighty well. There, don't let him slip over--that's enough.'

Just then Toole opened the door enough to put his head through, and
gently restraining poor Mrs. Sturk with his hand, he said with a
vigorous whisper--

''Twill all go well, Ma'am, we hope, if he's not agitated; you must not
go in, Ma'am, nor talk to him--by-and-by you may see him, but he must be
quiet now; his pulse is very regular at present--but you see, Ma'am, we
can't be too cautious.'

While Toole was thus discoursing her at the door, she heard Dr. Dillon
washing his hands, and Sturk's familiar voice, sounding so strange after
the long silence, say very languidly and slowly--

'Take a pen, Sir--some one--take and write--write down what I say.'

'Now, Ma'am, you see he's bent on talking,' said Toole, whose quick ear
caught the promise of a revelation. 'I must be at my post, Ma'am--the
bed post--hey! We may joke now, Ma'am, that the patient's recovered his
speech; and, you know, you mustn't come in--not till we tell you it's
safe--there now--rely on me--I give you my word of honour he's doing as
we