In entering the front parlour from whence, in no small excitement, there issued the notes of a course diapason, which he fancied was known to him, he found Mr. Justice Lowe in somewhat tempestuous conference with the visitor.

He was, in fact, no other than Black Dillon; black enough he looked just now. He had only a moment before returned from a barren visit to the Brass Castle, and was in no mood to be trifled with.

‘‘Twasn’t I, Sir, but Mr. Dangerfield, who promised you five hundred guineas,’ said Mr. Lowe, with a dry nonchalance.

‘Five hundred fiddles,’ retorted Doctor Dillon — his phrase was coarser, and Toole at that moment entering the door, and divining the situation from the doctor’s famished glare and wild gestures, exploded, I’m sorry to say in a momentary burst of laughter, into his cocked hat. ’Twas instantly stifled, however; and when Dillon turned his flaming eyes upon him, the little doctor made him a bow of superlative gravity, which the furious hero of the trepan was too full of his wrongs to notice in any way.

‘I was down at his house, bedad, the “Brass Castle,” if you plase, and not a brass farthin’ for my pains, nothing there but an ould woman, as ould and as ugly as himself, or the divil — be gannies! An’ he’s levanted, or else tuck for debt. Brass Castle! brass forehead, bedad. Brass, like Goliath, from head to heels; an’ by the heels he’s laid, I’ll take my davy, considherin’ at his laysure which is strongest — a brass castle or a stone jug. An’ where, Sir, am I to get my five hundred guineas — where, Sir?’ he thundered, staring first in Lowe’s face, then in Toole’s, and dealing the table a lusty blow at each interrogatory.

‘I think, Sir,’ said Lowe, anticipating Toole, ‘you’d do well to consider the sick man, Sir.’ The noise was certainly considerable.

‘I don’t know, Sir, that the sick man’s considherin’ me much,’ retorted Doctor Dillon. ‘Sick man — sick grandmother’s aunt! If you can’t speak like a man o’ sense, don’t spake, at any rate, like a justice o’ the pace. Sick man, indeed! why there’s not a crature livin’ barrin’ a natural eediot, or an apothecary, that doesn’t know the man’s dead; he’s dead, Sir; but ‘tisn’t so with me, an’ I can’t get on without vittles, and vittles isn’t to be had without money; that’s logic, Mr. Justice; that’s a medical fact Mr. Docthor. An’ how am I to get my five hundred guineas? I say, you and you — the both o’ ye — that prevented me of going last night to his brass castle — brass snuff-box — there isn’t room to stand in it, bedad — an’ gettin’ my money. I hold you both liable to me — one an’ t’other — the both o’ ye.’

‘Why, Sir,’ said Lowe, ‘’tis a honorarium.’

‘’Tis no such thing, Sir; ’tis a contract,’ thundered Dillon, pulling Dangerfield’s note of promise from his pocket, and dealing it a mighty slap with the back of his hand.

‘Contract or no, Sir, there’s nobody liable for it but himself.’

‘We’ll try that, Sir; and in the meantime, what the divil am I to do, I’d be glad to know; for strike me crooked if I have a crown piece to pay the coachman. Trepan, indeed; I’m nately trepanned myself.’

‘If you’ll only listen, Sir, I’ll show you your case is well enough. Mr. Dangerfield, as you call him, has not left the country; and though he’s arrested, ‘tisn’t for debt. If he owes you the money, ’tis your own fault if you don’t make him pay it, for I’m credibly informed he’s worth more than a hundred thousand pounds.’

‘And where is he, Sir?’ demanded Black Dillon, much more cheerfully and amicably. ‘I hope I see you well, Doctor Toole.’

That learned person acknowledged the somewhat tardy courtesy, and Lowe made answer:

‘He lies in the county gaol, Sir, on a serious criminal charge; but a line from me, Sir, will, I think, gain you admission to him forthwith.’

‘I’ll be much obliged for it, Sir,’ answered Dillon. ‘What o’clock is it?’ he asked of Toole; for though it is believed he owned a watch, it was sometimes not about him; and while Lowe scribbled a note, Toole asked in a dignified way —

‘Have you seen our patient, Sir?’

‘Not I. Didn’t I see him last night? The man’s dead. He’s in the last stage of exhaustion with an inflammatory pulse. If you feed him up he’ll die of inflammation; and if you don’t he’ll die of wakeness. So he lies on the fatal horns of a dilemma, you see; an’ not all the men in Derry’ll take him off them alive. He’s gone, Sir. Pell’s coming, I hear. I’d wait if I could; but I must look afther business; and there’s no good to be done here. I thank you, Mr. Lowe — Sir — your most obedient servant, Doctor Toole.’ And with Lowe’s note in his breeches’ pocket, he strode out to the steps, and whistled for his coachman, who drove his respectable employer tipsily to his destination.

I dare say the interview was characteristic; but I can find no account of it. I am pretty sure, however, that he did not get a shilling. So at least he stated in his declaration, in the action against Lowe, in which he, or rather his attorney, was nonsuited, with grievous loss of costs. And judging by the sort of esteem in which Mr. Dangerfield held Black Dillon, I fancy that few things would have pleased him better in his unfortunate situation than hitting that able practitioner as hard as might be.

Just as he drove away, poor little Mrs. Sturk looked in.

‘Is there anything, Ma’am?’ asked Toole, a little uneasily.

‘Only — only, I think he’s just a little frightened — he’s so nervous you know — by that Dublin doctor’s loud talking — and he’s got a kind of trembling — a shivering.’

‘Eh — a shivering, Ma’am?’ said Toole. ‘Like a man that’s taken a cold, eh?’

‘Oh, he hasn’t got cold — I’m sure — there’s no danger of that. It’s only nervous; so I covered him up with another pair of blankets, and gave him a hot drink.’

‘Very good, Ma’am; I’ll follow you up in a minute.’

‘And even if it was, you know he shakes off cold in no time, he has such a fine constitution.’

‘Yes, Ma’am — that’s true — very good, Ma’am. I’ll be after you.’

So up stairs went Mrs. Sturk in a fuss.

‘That’s it,’ said Toole so soon as they were alone, nodding two or three times dejectedly, and looking very glum. ‘It’s set in-the inflammation — it’s set in, Sir. He’s gone. That’s the rigor.’

‘Poor gentleman,’ said Lowe, after a short pause, ‘I’m much concerned for him, and for his family.’

‘’Tis a bad business,’ said Toole, gloomily, like a ............