But what could she do?
She dared not refuse; all she could risk was an anxious hint to poor little Mrs.Nutter, 'not to be telling her _anything_, good, bad, or indifferent, but just to ask her what questions she liked, and no more.' Indeed, poor Mrs.Mack was low and feverish about this assignation, and would have been more so but for the hope that her Polonius, behind the arras, would bring the woman of Endor to her knees.
All on a sudden she heard the rumble and jingle of a hackney coach, and the clang of the horses' hoofs pulled up close under her window; her heart bounded and fluttered up to her mouth, and then dropped down like a lump of lead, and she heard a well-known voice talk a few sentences to the coachman, and then in the hall, as she supposed, to Biddy; and so she came into the room, dressed as usual in black, tall, thin, and erect, with a black hood shading her pale face and the mist and chill of night seemed to enter along with her.
It was a great relief to poor Mrs.Mack, that she actually saw Biddy at that moment run across the street toward Toole's hall-door, and she quickly averted her conscious glance from the light-heeled handmaid.
'Pray take a chair, Ma'am,' said Mrs.Mack, with a pallid face and a low courtesy.
Mistress Matchwell made a faint courtesy in return, and, without saying anything, sat down, and peered sharply round the room.
'I'm glad, Ma'am, you had no dust to-day; the rain, Ma'am, laid it beautiful.' The grim woman in black threw back her hood a little, and showed her pale face and thin lips, and prominent black eyes, altogether a grisly and intimidating countenance, with something wild and suspicious in it, suiting by no means ill with her supernatural and malign pretensions.
Mrs.Mack's ear was strained to catch the sound of Toole's approach, and a pause ensued, during which she got up and poured out a glass of port for the lady, and she presented it to her deferentially.

She took it with a nod, and sipped it, thinking, as it seemed, uneasily.

There was plainly something more than usual upon her mind.

Mrs.Mack thought--indeed, she was quite sure--she heard a little fussing about the bed-room door, and concluded that the doctor was getting under cover.
When Mrs.Matchwell had set her empty glass upon the table, she glided to the window, and Mrs.Mack's guilty conscience smote her, as she saw her look towards Toole's house.

It was only, however, for the coach; and having satisfied herself it was at hand, she said-- 'We'll have some minutes quite private, if you please--'tisn't my affair, you know, but yours,' said the weird woman.
There had been ample time for the arrangement of Toole's ambuscade.