Mr. Dangerfield was at the club that night, and was rather in spirits than otherwise, except, indeed, when poor Charles Nutter was talked of. Then he looked grave, and shrugged, and shook his head, and said —

‘A bad business, Sir; and where’s his poor wife?’

‘Spending the night with us, poor soul,’ said Major O’Neill, mildly, ‘and hasn’t an idaya, poor thing; and indeed, I hope, she mayn’t hear it.’

‘Pooh! Sir, she must hear it; but you know she might have heard worse, Sir, eh?’ rejoined Dangerfield.

‘True for you, Sir,’ said the major, suspending the filling of his pipe to direct a quiet glance of significance at Dangerfield, and then closing his eyes with a nod.

And just at this point in came Spaight.

‘Well, Spaight!’

‘Well, Sir.’

‘You saw the body, eh?’ and a dozen other interrogatories followed, as, cold and wet with melting snow, dishevelled, and storm-beaten — for it was a plaguy rough night — the young fellow, with a general greeting to the company, made his way to the fire.

‘’Tis a tremendous night, gentlemen, so by your leave I’ll stir the fire — and, yes, I seen him, poor Nutter — and, paugh, an ugly sight he is, I can tell you; here Larry, bring me a rummer-glass of punch — his right ear’s gone, and a’most all his right hand — and screeching hot, do you mind — an’, phiew — altogether ’tis sickening — them fishes, you know — I’m a’most sorry I went in-you remember Dogherty’s whiskey shop in Ringsend — he lies in the back parlour, and wondherful little changed in appearance.’

And so Mr. Spaight, with a little round table at his elbow, and his heels over the fender, sipped his steaming punch, and thawed inwardly and outwardly, as he answered their questions and mixed in their speculations.

Up at the Mills, which had heard the awful news, first from the Widow Macan, and afterwards from Pat Moran, the maids sat over their tea in the kitchen in high excitement and thrilling chat —‘The poor master!’ ‘Oh, the poor man!’ ‘Oh, la, what’s that?’ with a start and a peep over the shoulders. ‘And oh, dear, and how in the world will the poor little misthress ever live over the news?’ And so forth, made a principal part of their talk. There was a good accompaniment of wind outside, and a soft pelting of snow on the window panes, ‘and oh, my dear life, but wasn’t it dark!’

Up went Moggy, with her thick-wicked kitchen candle, to seek repose; and Betty, resolving not to be long behind, waited only ‘to wash up her plates’ and slack down the fire, having made up her mind, for she grew more nervous in solitude, to share Moggy’s bed for that night.

Moggy had not been twenty minutes gone, and her task was nearly ended, when —‘Oh, blessed saints!’ murmured Betty, with staring eyes, and dropping the sweeping-brush on the flags, she heard, or thought she heard, her master’s step, which was peculiar, crossing the floor overhead.

She listened, herself as pale as a corpse, and nearly as breathless; but there was nothing now but the muffled gusts of the storm, and the close soft beat of the snow, so she listened and listened, but nothing came of it.

‘’Tis only the vapours,’ said Betty, drawing a long breath, and doing her best to be cheerful; and so she finished her labours, stopping every now and then to listen, and humming tunes very loud, in fits and starts. Then it came to her turn to take her candle and go up stairs; she was a good half-hour later than Moggy — all was quiet within the house — only the sound of the storm — the creak and rattle of its strain, and the hurly-burly of the gusts over the roof and chimneys.

Over her shoulder she peered jealously this way and that, as with flaring candle she climbed the stairs. How black the window looked on the lobby, with its white patterns of snow flakes in perpetual succession sliding down the panes. Who could tell what horrid face might be looking in close to her as she passed, secure in the darkness and that drifting white lace............