'And make my compliments to your client, or conjuror, or wife, or whatever she is, and tell her that whenever she wants her dirty work done, there's plenty of other Dublin blackguards to be got to do it, without coming to Docther Thomas Toole, or the Rev. Father Roach.'
Which sarcasm he delivered with killing significance, but Dirty Davy had survived worse thrusts than that.
'She's a conjuror, is she? I thank you, Sir.'
'You're easily obliged, Sir,' says Toole.
'We all know what that manes. And these documents sworn to by my client and myself, is a pack o' lies! Betther and betther! I thank ye again, Sir.'
'You're welcome, my honey,' rejoined Toole, affectionately.
'An' you live round the corner. I know your hall-door, Sir—a light brown, wid a brass knocker.'
'Which is a fine likeness iv your own handsome face, Sir,' retorted Toole.
'An' them two documents, Sir, is a fabrication and a forgery, backed up wid false affidavits?' continued Mr. O'Reegan.
'Mind that, Larry,' says the doctor, with a sudden inspiration addressing the waiter, who had peeped in; 'he admits that them two documents you see there, is forgeries, backed up with false affidavits; you heard him say so, and I'll call you to prove it.'