If Mr. Mervyn had been sufficiently frightened, he would have forthwith made good his retreat to his bed-room, or, if he had not been frightened at all, he would have kept his seat, and allowed his fancies to return to their old channel.  But, in fact, he took a light in his hand, and opened a bit of the window-shutter.  The snow, however, was spread over the panes in a white, sliding curtain, that returned the light of his candle, and hid all without.  ’Twas idle trying to peer through it, but as he did, the palm of a hand was suddenly applied to the glass on the outside, and began briskly to rub off the snow, as if to open a peep-hole for distinct inspection.

It was to be more this time than the apparition of a hand—­a human face was immediately presented close to the glass—­not that of Nutter either—­no—­it was the face of Irons—­pale, with glittering eyes and blue chin, and wet hair quivering against the glass in the storm.

He nodded wildly to Mervyn, brushing away the snow, beckoning towards the back-door, as he supported himself on one knee on the window-stone, and, with his lips close to the glass, cried, ‘let me in;’ but, in the uproar of the storm, it was by his gestures, imperfectly as they were seen, rather than by his words, that Mervyn comprehended his meaning.

Down went Mr. Mervyn, without a moment’s hesitation, leaving the candle standing on the passage table, drew the bolts, opened the door, and in rushed Irons, in a furious gust, his cloak whirling about his head amidst a bitter eddying of snow, and a distant clapping of doors throughout the house.

The door secured again, Mr. Irons stood in his beflaked and dripping mantle, storm-tossed, dishevelled, and alone once again in the shelter of the Tiled House, to explain the motive of his visit.

‘Irons!  I could hardly believe it,’ and Mervyn made a pause, and then, filled with the one idea, he vehemently demanded, ’In Heaven’s name, have you come to tell me all you know?’

‘Well, maybe—­no,’ answered the clerk:  ’I don’t know; I’ll tell you something.  I’m going, you see, and I came here on my way; and I’ll tell you more than last time, but not all—­not all yet.’

‘Going? and where?—­what are your plans?’

’Plans?—­I’ve no plans.  Where am I going!—­nowhere—­anywhere.  I’m going away, that’s all.’

‘You’re leaving this place—­eh, to return no more?’

’I’m leaving it to-night; I’ve the doctor’s leave, Parson Walsingham.  What d’ye look at, Sir? d’ye think it’s what I murdered any one? not but if I stayed here I might though,’ and Mr. Irons laughed a frightened, half maniacal sort of laugh.  ’I’m going for a bit, a fortnight, or so, maybe, till things get quiet—­(lead us not into temptation!)—­to Mullingar, or anywhere; only I won’t stay longer at hell’s door, within stretch of that devil’s long arm.’

‘Come to the parlour,’ said Mervyn, perceiving that Irons was chilled and shivering.