Coyles, and
on to the road near my house. No one was in sight, so I walked down to
Chapelizod to show myself. Near the village tree I met Dr. Toole. I
asked him if Nutter was in the club, and he said no--nor at home, he
believed, for his boy had seen him more than half-an-hour ago leave his
hall door, dressed for the road.

'So I made as if disappointed, and turned back again, assured that
Nutter was the man. I was not easy, for I could not be sure that Sturk
was dead. Had I been allowed a second or two more, I'd have made sure
work of it. Still I was _nearly_ sure. I could not go back now and
finish the business. I could not say whether he lay there any longer,
and if he did, how many men Nutter might have about him by this time.
So, Sir, the cast was made, I could not mend it, and must abide my
fortune be it good or ill.

'Not a servant saw me go out or return. I came in quietly, and went into
my bed-room and lighted a candle. 'Twas a blunder, a blot, but a
thousand to one it was not hit. I washed my hands. There was some blood
on the whalebone, and on my fingers. I rolled the loaded whalebone up in
a red handkerchief, and locked it into my chest of drawers, designing to
destroy it, which I did, so soon as the servants were in bed; and then I
felt a chill and a slight shiver;--'twas only that I was an older man. I
was cool enough, but a strain on the mind was more to me then than
twenty years before. So I drank a dram, and I heard a noise outside my
window. 'Twas then that stupid dog, Cluffe, saw me, as he swears.

'Well, next day Sturk was brought home; Nutter was gone, and the
suspicion attached to him. That was well. But, though Pell pronounced
that he must die without recovering consciousness, and that the trepan
would kill him instantaneously, I had a profound misgiving that he might
recover speech and recollection. I wrote as exact a statement of the
case to my London physician--a very great man--as I could collect, and
had his answer, which agreed exactly with Doctor Pell's. 'Twas agreed on
all hands the trepan would be certain death. Days, weeks, or months--it
mattered not what the interval--no returning glimmer of memory could
light his death-bed. Still, Sir, I presaged evil. He was so long about
dying.

'I'm telling you everything, you see. I offered Irons what would have
been a fortune to him--he was attending occasionally in Sturk's
sick-room, and assisting in dressing his wounds--to watch his
opport