iver's voice, the horses scrambled into motion, the wheels revolved,
and the master of the Brass Castle and the equipage glided away like a
magic lantern group, from before the eyes and the candle of the weeping
Mrs. Jukes.

CHAPTER XCIII.

IN WHICH DOCTOR TOOLE AND DIRTY DAVY CONFER IN THE BLUE-ROOM.

The coach rumbled along toward Dublin at a leisurely jog.
Notwithstanding the firm front Mr. Lowe had presented, Dangerfield's
harangue had affected him unpleasantly. Cluffe's little bit of
information respecting the instrument he had seen the prisoner lay up in
his drawer on the night of the murder, and which corresponded in
description with the wounds traced upon Sturk's skull, seemed to have
failed. The handle of Dangerfield's harmless horsewhip, his mind misgave
him, was all that would come of _that_ piece of evidence; and it was
impossible to say there might not be something in all that Dangerfield
had uttered. Is it a magnetic force, or a high histrionic vein in some
men, that makes them so persuasive and overpowering, and their passion
so formidable? But, with Dangerfield's presence, the effect of his
plausibilities and his defiance passed away. The pointed and consistent
evidence of Sturk, perfectly clear as he was upon every topic he
mentioned, and the corroborative testimony of Irons, equally distinct
and damning--the whole case blurred and disjointed, and for a moment
grown unpleasantly hazy and uncertain in the presence of that white
sorcerer, readjusted itself now that he was gone, and came out in iron
and compact relief--impregnable.

'Run boys, one of you, and open the gate of the Mills,' said Lowe, whose
benevolence, such as it was, expanded in his intense feeling of relief.
''Twill be good news for poor Mistress Nutter. She'll see her husband in
the morning.'

So he rode up to the Mills, and knocked his alarm, as we have seen and
heard, and there told his tidings to poor Sally Nutter, vastly to the
relief of Mistress Matchwell, the Blind Fiddler, and even of the sage,
Dirt Davy; for there are persons upon the earth to whom a sudden summons
of any sort always sounds like a call to judgment, and who, in any such
ambiguous case, fill up the moments of suspense with wild conjecture,
and a ghastly summing-up against themselves; can it be this--or that--or
the other old, buried, distant villainy, that comes back to take me by
the throat?

Having told his good news in a few dry words to Mrs. Sally