Th' dhrink thot done it. Twas a new kind av cocktail. Ye see, I'd jist got back from Melbourne, an' I was takin' in th' lights that noight, aisy like, whin I come t' Toddy's place. I orders a dhrink av whuskey. “'Whist, Pat,' says he, 'ye don't want whuskey; 'twill make ye dhrunk. Why don't ye take somethin' green, like th' Irish?' “'Green,” says I. ''Tis a foine colour. I dinna fear anything thot comes fra' a bottle. Pass'er oot!' “An' thot he did. 'Twas 'creme de menthay' on th' bottle. 'An',' says he, ''Twon't make ye dhrunk.' But he was a liar, beggin' yer pardin. “For by an' by Oi see his head a growin' larger an' larger, until Oi couldn't see annything but a few loights on th' cailing, an' a few people on th' edges, loike. An' afther thot Oi wint oot, an' walked till Oi come to a hill. An' there was a moon, an' a ould hoose standin' still, which th' moon was not. So Oi stood still to watch it, but bein' tired an' weary an' not havin' got rid o' me sea-legs, Oi sat me doon on th' steps av th' hoose for a bit av a rest, an' t' watch th' moon, thinkin' mebbe she'd stand still by an' by. “Well, sor, Oi hadn't been there more'n three 'r four minits, whin th' door opened, an' oot steps a little ould lady, aboot th' littlest an' ouldest Oi iver see in 'Frisco. “'Good avenin', Mother Machree,' says Oi, touchin' me hat. “'Mother Machree!' says she, an' gives me a sharp look. Also she sniffs. 'Ye poor man,' says she. 'Ye'll catch yer death o' cold, out here. Ye better coom in an' lie on me sofy.' “Now, sor, how was Oi to ken, bein' a sailor an' ingorant? She was only a ould lady, an' withered. How was Oi to ken thot she was th' ould Witch o' Endor?” Watson's memory was at work on what he knew of the house at Chatterton Place, especially regarding its occupants at the beginning of the Blind Spot mystery. The Bar's old remark caught his attention. “The Witch of Endor?” “Aye; thot she were. Whin Oi woke up, there was nary a hoose at all, nor th' ould lady, nor Toddy Maloney's, nor 'Frisco. 'Twas a strange place I was, sor; a church loike St. Peter's, only bigger, th' same bein' harrd to belaive. An' th' columns looked loike waterspoots, an' th' sky above was full av clouds, the same bein' jest aboot ready to break into hell an' tempest. But ye've been there yerself, sor. “Well, here was a man beside me, dressed in a kilt. An' he spakes a strange language, although Oi could undershtand; and' he says, says he: “'My lord,' was what he says. “'My lord!' says Oi. 'Oi dinna ken what ye mane at all, at all.' “'Are ye not a Bar?' says he. “'Thot Oi am not!' says Oi, spakin' good English, so's to be sure he'd understand. 'Oi'm Pat MacPherson.' “But he couldn' ken. Thin we left th' temple an' wint out into the street. An' a great crowd of people came aroun' an' began shoutin'. By an' by we wint into anither buildin'. “'For why sh'd iverybody look at me whin we crossed th' street jest noo?' I asked. “'Tis y'r clothes,' says he.