Mrs. Mack
thought--indeed, she was quite sure--she heard a little fussing about
the bed-room door, and concluded that the doctor was getting under
cover.
When Mrs. Matchwell had set her empty glass upon the table, she glided
to the window, and Mrs. Mack's guilty conscience smote her, as she saw
her look towards Toole's house. It was only, however, for the coach; and
having satisfied herself it was at hand, she said--
'We'll have some minutes quite private, if you please--'tisn't my
affair, you know, but yours,' said the weird woman.
There had been ample time for the arrangement of Toole's ambuscade. Now
was the moment. The crisis was upon her. But poor Mrs. Mack, just as she
was about to say her little say about the front windows and opposite
neighbours, and the privacy of the back bed-room, and to propose their
retiring thither, felt a sinking of the heart--a deadly faintness, and
an instinctive conviction that she was altogether overmatched, and that
she could not hope to play successfully any sort of devil's game with
that all-seeing sorceress. She had always thought she was a plucky woman
till she met Mistress Mary.
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