eard of M. M.; and the town, and the country, too, for that matter, is
like to know a good deal more of her before long; and who served them--a
process-server, or who?'

'Why, a fat, broad, bull-necked rascal, with a double chin, and a great
round face, the colour of a bad suet-dumplin', and a black patch over
his eye,' answered Toole.

'Very like--was he alone?' said Gamble.

'No--a long, sly she-devil in black, that looked as if she'd cut your
windpipe, like a cat in the dark, as pale as paper, and mighty large,
black, hollow eyes.'

'Ay--that's it,' said Gamble, who, during this dialogue, had thrown his
morning-gown over the back of the chair, and got on his coat, and opened
a little press in the wall, from which he took his wig, and so completed
his toilet.

'That's it?' repeated Toole: 'what's it?--what's _what?_'

'Why, 'tis David O'Regan--Dirty Davy, as we call him. I never knew him
yet in an honest case; and the woman's M. M.'

'Hey! to be sure--a woman--I know--I remember; and he was on the point
of breaking out with poor Mrs. Macnamara's secret, but recovered in
time. 'That's the she fortune-teller, the witch, M. M., Mary Matchwell;
'twas one of her printed cards, you know, was found lying in Sturk's
blood. Dr. Sturk, you remember, that they issued a warrant for, against
our poor friend, you know.'

'Ay, ay--poor Charles--poor Nutter. Are you going to the inquest?' said
Gamble; and, on a sudden, stopped short, with a look of great fear, and
a little beckon of his hand forward, as if he had seen something.

There was that in Gamble's change of countenance which startled Toole,
who, seeing that his glance was directed through an open door at the
other end of the room, skipped from his chair and peeped through it.
There was nothing, however, visible but a tenebrose and empty passage.

'What did you see--eh? What frightens you?' said Toole. 'One would think
you saw Nutter--like--like.'

Gamble looked horribly perturbed at these words.

'Shut it,' said he, nearing the door, on which Toole's hand rested.
Toole took another peep, and did so.

'Why, there's nothing there--like--like the women down at the Mills
there,' continued the doctor.

'What about the women?' enquired Gamble, not seeming to know very well
what he was saying, agitated still--perhaps, intending to keep Toole
talking.

'Why, the women--the maids, you know--poor Nutter's servants, down at
the Mills. They swear he walks the house, a