At last, sure enough, Spaight appeared.  Toole, who had been detained by business in another quarter, had ridden into the town from Leixlip, and was now dismounted and talking with Major O’Neill upon the absorbing topic.  These cronies saw Spaight at the turnpike, and as he showed his ticket, he talked with the man.  Of course, the news was come.  The turnpike-man knew it by this time; and off scampered Toole, and the major followed close at his heels, at double-quick.  He made a dismal shake or two of his head, and lifted his hand as they drew near.  Toole’s heart misgave him.

‘Well, how is it?—­what’s the news?’ he panted.

‘A true bill,’ answered Spaight, with a solemn stare; ’a true bill, Sir.’

Toole uttered an oath of consternation, and taking the words out of Spaight’s mouth, told the news to the major.

‘Do you tell me so?’ exclaimed the major.  ’Bedad, Sir, I’m uncommon sorry.’

‘A bad business, Sir,’ observed Spaight.

‘No worse,’ said Toole.  ’If they convict him on this, you know—­in case Sturk dies, and die he will—­they’ll indict and convict him on the more serious charge,’ and he winked gloomily, ‘the evidence is all one.’

‘That poor little Sally Nutter!’ ejaculated the major.  ’She’s to be pitied, the crature!’

‘’Tis mighty slender evidence to take a man’s life on,’ said Toole, with some disgust.  ’Be the law, Sir, the whole thing gives me a complete turn.  Are you to dine with Colonel Strafford to-day?’

‘I am, Sir,’ said the major; ‘an’ it goes again’ the colonel’s grain to have a party at all just now, with the respect he has for the family up there,’ and he nodded his head, pensively, toward the Elms.  ’But he asked Lowe ten days ago, and Mr. Dangerfield, and two or three more; and you know he could not put them off on that ground—­there being no relationship, you see—­and, ’pon my oath, Sir, I’d rather not go myself, just now.’

That evening, at five o’clock, Colonel Stafford’s dinner party assembled at the King’s House.  The colonel was a serene man, and hospitality—­even had he been in the dumps—­demands her sacrifices.  He, therefore, did the honours as beseemed a genial and courteous old officer of the Royal Irish Artillery, who, if his conversation was not very remarkable in quality, and certainly not exorbitant in quantity, made up by listening a great deal, and supplying no end of civility, and an affluence of very pretty claret.  Mr. Justice Lowe was there, and Mr. Dangerfield, and old Colonel Bligh, of the Magazine, and honest Major O’Neill, notwithstanding his low spirits.  Perhaps they required keeping up; and claret like Colonel Stafford’s is consoling.