“Faix! they could n't do that,” broke in another; “there's marks about the place would soon contradict them.”
“What marks?”
“The print of an elegant boot. I saw it myself; it is small in the heel, and sharp in the toe,—very unlike yours or mine, Tim.”
“Begad! so much the better,” said the other, laughing.
“And I 'll tell you more,” resumed the former speaker: “it was a dress-sword—what they wear at the Castle—killed him. You could scarce see the hole. It 's only a little blue spot between the ribs.”
“Oh, dear! oh, dear!” exclaimed a woman's voice; “and they say he was an elegant, fine man!”
“As fine a figure of a man as ever ye looked at!”
“And nobody knows the reason of it at all?” asked she again.
“I'll engage it was about a woman!” muttered a husky, old, cracked voice, that was constantly heard, up to this moment, bargaining for oranges.
And Fagan quickly made a sign to my father to listen attentively.