ollowed, and, despairing of finding it upon the road, they
diverged into the narrow slip of ground by the river bank, and just
within the park-gate, in a slight hollow, the clay of which was still
impressible, they found the track again. It led close up to the river
bank, and there the villain seemed to have come to a stand still; for
the sod just for so much as a good sized sheet of letter-paper might
cover, was trod and broken, as if at the water's edge he had stood for a
while, and turned about and shifted his feet, like a fellow that is
uneasy while he is stationary.

From this stand-point they failed to discover any receding foot-print;
but close by it came a little horse track, covered with shingle, by
which, in those days, the troops used to ride their horses to water. He
might have stepped upon this, and following it, taken to the streets; or
he might--and this was Lowe's theory--have swam the river at this point,
and got into some of those ruffian haunts in the rear of Watling and St.
James's streets. So Lowe, who, with a thief or a murderer in the wind,
had the soul of a Nimrod, rode round to the opposite bank, first telling
Toole, who did not care to press his services at Sturk's house,
uninvited, that he would send out the great Doctor Pell to examine the
patient, or the body, as the case might turn out.

By this time they were carrying Doctor Sturk--that gaudy and dismal
image--up his own staircase--his pale wife sobbing and shivering on the
landing, among whispered ejaculations from the maids, and the speechless
wonder of the awe-stricken children, staring through the banisters--to
lay him in the bed where at last he is to lie without dreaming.

CHAPTER LIV.

IN WHICH MISS MAGNOLIA MACNAMARA AND DR. TOOLE, IN DIFFERENT SCENES,
PROVE THEMSELVES GOOD SAMARITANS; AND THE GREAT DOCTOR PELL MOUNTS THE
STAIRS OF THE HOUSE BY THE CHURCH-YARD.

So pulse or no pulse, dead or alive, they got Sturk into his bed.

Poor, cowed, quiet little Mrs. Sturk, went quite wild at the bedside.

'Oh! my Barney--my Barney--my noble Barney,' she kept crying. 'He's
gone--he'll never speak again. Do you think he hears? Oh, Barney, my
darling--Barney, it's your own poor little Letty--oh--Barney, darling,
don't you hear. It's your own poor, foolish Letty.'

But it was the same stern face, and ears of stone. There was no answer
and no sign.

And she sent a pitiful entreaty to Doctor Toole, who came very
good-naturedly-