And now there was news all over the town, to keep all the tongues there in motion.

News — news — great news!— terrible news! Peter Fogarty, Mr. Tresham’s boy, had it that morning from his cousin, Jim Redmond, whose aunt lived at Ringsend, and kept the little shop over against the ‘Plume of Feathers,’ where you might have your pick and choice of all sorts of nice and useful things — bacon, brass snuff-boxes, penny ballads, eggs, candles, cheese, tobacco-pipes, pinchbeck buckles for knee and instep, soap, sausages, and who knows what beside.

No one quite believed it — it was a tradition at third hand, and Peter Fogarty’s cousin, Jim Redmond’s aunt, was easy of faith;— Jim, it was presumed, not very accurate in narration, and Peter, not much better. Though, however, it was not actually ‘intelligence,’ it was a startling thesis. And though some raised their brows and smiled darkly, and shook their heads, the whole town certainly pricked their ears at it. And not a man met another without ‘Well! anything more? You’ve heard the report, Sir — eh?’

It was not till Doctor Toole came out of town, early that day, that the sensation began in earnest.

‘There could be no doubt about it —’twas a wonderful strange thing certainly. After so long a time — and so well preserved too.’

‘What was it — what is it?’

‘Why, Charles Nutter’s corpse is found, Sir!’

‘Corpse — hey!’

‘So Toole says. Hollo! Toole — Doctor Toole — I say. Here’s Mr. Slowe hasn’t heard about poor Nutter.’

‘Ho! neighbour Slowe — give you good-day, Sir — not heard it? By Jove, Sir — poor Nutter!—’tis true — his body’s found — picked up this morning, just at sunrise, by two Dunleary fishermen, off Bullock. Justice Lowe has seen it — and Spaight saw it too. I’ve just been speaking with him, not an hour ago, in Thomas Street. It lies at Ringsend — and an inquest in the morning.’

And so on in Doctor Toole’s manner, until he saw Dr. Walsingham, the good rector, pausing in his leisurely walk just outside the row of houses that fronted the turnpike, in one of which were the lodgings of Dick Devereux.

The good Doctor Toole wondered what brought his reverence there, for he had an inkling of something going on. So he bustled off to him, and told his story with the stern solemnity befitting such a theme, and that pallid, half-suppressed smile with which an exciting horror is sometimes related. And the good rector had many ejaculations of consternation and sympathy, and not a few enquiries to utter. And at last, when the theme was quite exhausted, he told Toole, who still lingered on, that he was going to pay his respects to Captain Devereux.

‘Oh!’ said cunning little Toole, ‘you need not, for I told him the whole matter.’

‘Very like, Sir,’ answered the doctor; ‘but ’tis on another matter I wish to see him.’

‘Oh!— ho!— certainly — very good, Sir. I beg pardon — and — and — he’s just done his breakfast — a late dog, Sir — ha! ha! Your servant, Doctor Walsingham.’

Devereux puzzled his comrade Puddock more than ever. Sometimes he would descend with his blue devils into the abyss, and sit there all the evening in a dismal sulk. Sometimes he was gayer even than his old gay self; and sometimes in a bitter vein, talking enigmatical ironies, with his strange smile; and sometimes he was dangerous and furious, just as the weather changes, without rhyme or reason. Maybe he was angry with him............