“An’ if you wants anythin’ else, Mr. Fitzgerald,” she said, going to the door, “you knows your way to the bell as easily as I do to the kitching,” and, with a final chirrup, she crackled out of the room.

As soon as the door was closed, Brian put down his paper and roared, in spite of his worries.  He had that extraordinary vivacious Irish temperament, which enables a man to put all trouble behind his back, and thoroughly enjoy the present.  His landlady, with her Arabian Nightlike romances, was a source of great amusement to him, and he felt considerably cheered by the odd turn her humour had taken this morning.  After a time, however, his laughter ceased, and his troubles came crowding on him again.  He drank his coffee, but pushed away the food which was before him; and looked through the Argus, for the latest report about the murder case.  What he read made his cheek turn a shade paler than before.  He could feel his heart thumping wildly.

“They’ve found a clue, have they?” he muttered, rising and pacing restlessly up and down.  “I wonder what it can be?  I threw that man off the scent last night, but if he suspects me, there will be no difficulty in his finding out where I live.  Bah!  What nonsense I am talking.  I am the victim of my own morbid imagination.  There is nothing to connect me with the crime, so I need not be afraid of my shadow.  I’ve a good mind to leave town for a time, but if I am suspected that would excite suspicion.  Oh, Madge! my darling,” he cried passionately, “if you only knew what I suffer, I know that you would pity me—­but you must never know the truth—­Never!  Never!” and sinking into a chair by the window, he covered his face with his hands.  After remaining in this position for some minutes, occupied with his own gloomy thoughts, he arose and rang the bell.  A faint crackle in the distance announced that Mrs. Sampson had heard it, and she soon came into the room, looking more like a cricket than ever.  Brian had gone into his bedroom, and called out to her from there—­

“I am going down to St. Kilda, Mrs. Sampson,” he said, “and probably I shall not be back all day.”

“Which I ’opes it ’ull do you good,” she answered, “for you’ve eaten nothin’, an’ the sea breezes is miraculous for makin’ you take to your victuals.  My mother’s brother, bein’ a sailor, an’ wonderful for ’is stomach, which, when ’e ’ad done a meal, the table looked as if a low-cuss had gone over it.”

“A what?” asked Fitzgerald, buttoning his gloves.

“A low-cuss!” replied the landlady, in surprise at his ignorance, “as I’ve read in ’Oly Writ, as ’ow John the Baptist was partial to ’em, not that I think they’d be very fillin’, tho’, to be sure, ’e ’ad a sweet tooth, and ate ’oney with ’em.”

“Oh! you mean locusts,” said Brian now enlightened.

“An’ what else?” asked Mrs. Sampson, indignantly; “which, tho’ not bein’ a scholar’d, I speaks English, I ’opes, my mother’s second cousin ‘avin’ ‘ad first prize at a spellin’ bee, tho’ ’e died early through brain fever, ‘avin’ crowded ’is ’ead over much with the dictionary.”