d eye on his
employer, notes swiftly if his aspect be sulky or benign, and stays his
vision at that. But, now, Mr. Murphy, with sudden trepidation, with a
frightful sinking in the pit of his stomach, became aware that his
employer was looking at him stealthily; and, little by little, he took
to sneaking glances at his employer. After a few moments neither
seemed to be able to keep his eyes from straying--they created
opportunities in connection with the letters; the one looking intent,
wide-eyed, and with a cold, frigid, rigid, hard stare, and the other
scurrying and furtive, in-and-away, hit-and-miss-and-try-again, wink,
blink, and twitter.

Mr. MacMahon spoke--

"Murphy!"

"Yes, sir."

"Have you anything in Court to-day?"

"Yes, sir, an ex parte application, Donald and Cluggs."

"Let O'Neill attend to it. I shall want you to draft a deed for some
ladies who will call here at noon. You can come down at ten minutes
after twelve."

"Yes, sir," said Murphy.

He grabbed his share of the letters and got to the door bathed in
perspiration and forebodings. He closed the door softly behind him,
and stood for a few seconds staring at the handle. "Blow you!" said he
viciously to nothing in particular, and he went slowly upstairs.

"He can't know," said he on the first landing. On the second floor he
thought, "She couldn't have told for she didn't know herself." He
reached his desk. "I wish I had a half of whisky," said the young man
to himself.

Before, however, twelve o'clock arrived he had journeyed on the hopeful
pinions of youth from the dogmatic "could not be" to the equally
immovable "is not," and his mind resumed its interrupted equilibrium.

At twelve o'clock Mrs. and Miss MacMahon arrived, and were at once
shown into the private office. At ten minutes past, Mr. Murphy's
respectful tap was heard. "Don't, Eddie," said Mrs. MacMahon in a
queer, flurried voice. "Come in," said her husband. Nora was
examining some judicial cartoons pinned over the mantelpiece. Mr.
Murphy opened the door a few inches, slid through the aperture, and was
at once caught and held by his employer's eye, which, like a hand,
guided him to the table with his notebook. Under the almost physical
pressure of that authoritative glare he did not dare to look who was in
the room, but the rim of his eye saw the movement of a skirt like the
far-away, shadowy canter of a ghost's robe. He fixed his attention on
his note-book.

Mr. MacMahon be