His companion extended his hand toward the papers.
'Never mind,' said the attorney; 'there's that here will fix M. M. in a mighty tight vice.'
'And who's M. M., pray?' enquired Toole.
'When were these notices served, doctor?' asked Mr. Gamble.
'Not an hour ago; but, I say, who the plague's M. M.?' answered Toole.
'M. M.,' repeated the attorney, smiling grimly on the backs of the notices which lay on the table; 'why there's many queer things to be heard of M. M.; and the town, and the country, too, for that matter, is like to know a good deal more of her before long; and who served them—a process-server, or who?'
'Why, a fat, broad, bull-necked rascal, with a double chin, and a great round face, the colour of a bad suet-dumplin', and a black patch over his eye,' answered Toole.
'Very like—was he alone?' said Gamble.
'No—a long, sly she-devil in black, that looked as if she'd cut your windpipe, like a cat in the dark, as pale as paper, and mighty large, black, hollow eyes.'
'Ay—that's it,' said Gamble, who, during this dialogue, had thrown his morning-gown over the back of the chair, and got on his coat, and opened a little press in the wall, from which he took his wig, and so completed his toilet.