"Th' saints presarve us! But 'twas yersilf gave me th' sthart, Misther Maitland, sor!" O'Hagan paused in the gloom below, his upturned face quaintly illuminated by the flame of a wax taper in his gaslighter.
"I'm dining in town to-night, O'Hagan, and dropped around to dress. Is anybody else at home?"
"Nivver a wan, sor. Shure, th' house do be quiet's anny tomb—"
"Then who was that lady, O'Hagan?"
"Leddy, sor?"—in unbounded amazement.
"Yes," impatiently. "A young woman left the house just as I was coming in. Who was she?"
"Shure an' I think ye must be dr'amin', sor. Divvle a female—rayspicts to ye!—has been in this house for manny an' manny th' wake, sor."
"But, I tell you—"
"Belike 'twas somewan jist sthepped into the vesthibule, mebbe to tie her shoe, sor, and ye thought—"
"Oh, very well." Maitland relinquished the inquisition as unprofitable, willing to concede O'Hagan's theory a reasonable one, the more readily since he himself could by no means have sworn that the woman had actually come out through the door. Such had merely been his impression, honest enough, but founded on circumstantial evidence.