The outer shop was by this time filling with the small fruit-vendors of the capital,--a class peculiarly disposed to collect and propagate the gossip of the day; and Fagan well knew how much the popular impression would depend upon the coloring of their recital. “'T is lucky,” said one, “that his watch and money was on him, or they 'd say at once it was the boys done it.” “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. “That's Denny Cassin,” whispered he, “the greatest newsmonger in Dublin.” “The devil recave the fight ever I heerd of hadn't a woman in it, somehow or other; an' if she did n't begin it, she was sure to come in at the end, and make it worse. Was n't it a woman that got Hemphill Daly shot? Was n't it a woman was the death of Major Brown, of Coolmiues? Was n't it a woman--” “Arrah! bother ye, Denny!” broke in the representative of the sex, who stood an impatient listener to this long indictment; “what's worth fightin' for in the world barrin' ourselves?” A scornful laugh was all the reply he deigned to this appeal; and he went on,-- “I often said what Barry Rutledge 'ud come to,--ay, and I told himself so. 'You 've a bad tongue,' says I, 'and you 've a bad heart. Some day or other you 'll be found out;' and ye see, so he was.” “I wonder who did it!” exclaimed another. “My wonder is,” resumed Denny, “that it was n't done long ago; or instead of one wound in his skin, that he had n't fifty. Do you know that when I used to go up to the officers' room with oranges, I'd hear more wickedness out of his mouth in one mornin' than I 'd hear in Pill Lane, here, in a month of Sundays. There was n't a man dined at the Castle, there was n't a lady danced at the Coort, that he had n't a bad story about; and he always began by saying: 'He and I were old schoolfellows,' or 'She 's a great friend of mine.' I was up there the morning after the Coort came home from Carew Castle; and if ye heard the way he went on about the company. He began with Curtis, and finished with Carew himself.” Fagan closed the door here, and, walking over, sat down beside my father's chair.