“What are you afraid of, you ——­ fool?” says he, shaking me up; “I know what I’m about; I’ll carry you through; your life’s in my hands, mine in yours, only be cool.”  He was that himself, if ever man was, and quick as light he closed the dead man’s eyes, saying, “in for a penny in for a pound,” and he threw a bit of the coverlet over his breast, and his mouth and chin, just as a man might draw it rolling round in the bed, for I suppose he thought it best to hide the mouth that was open, and told its tale too plainly, and out he was on the lobby the next instant.  “Don’t tell Glascock what’s happened, ’twill make him look queer; let him put in the boots, and if he’s asked, say Mr. Beauclerc made a turn in the bed, and a grumbling, like a man turning over in his sleep, while he was doing so, d’ye see, and divide this, ’twill settle your little trouble, you know.”  ’Twas a little paper roll of a hundred guineas.  An’ that’s the way Mr. Beauclerc came by his death.’

This to Mervyn was the sort of shock that might have killed an older man.  The dreadful calamity that had stigmatised and beggared his family—­the horror and shame of which he well remembered, when first revealed to him, had held him trembling and tongue-tied for more than an hour before tears came to his relief, and which had ever since blackened his sky, with a monotony of storm and thunder, was in a moment shown to be a chimera.  No wonder that he was for a while silent, stunned, and bewildered.  At last he was able—­pale and cold—­to lift up his clasped hands, his eyes, and his heart, in awful gratitude, to the Author of Mercy, the Revealer of Secrets, the Lord of Life and Truth.

‘And where is this Charles Archer—­is he dead or living?’ urged Mervyn with an awful adjuration.

’Ay, where to catch him, and how—­Dead?  Well, he’s dead to some, you see, and living to others; and living or dead, I’ll put you on his track some fine day, if you’re true to me; but not yet awhile, and if you turn a stag, or name my name to living soul (and here Mr. Irons swore an oath such as I hope parish clerks don’t often swear, and which would have opened good Dr. Walsingham’s eyes with wonder and horror), you’ll never hear word more from me, and I think, Sir, you’ll lose your life beside.’

‘Your threats of violence are lost on me, I can take care of myself,’ said Mervyn, haughtily.

The clerk smiled a strange sort of smile.

’But I’ve already pledged my sacred honour not to mention your name or betray your secret.’

’Well, just have patience, and maybe I’ll not keep you long; but ’tis no trifle for a man to make up his mind to what’s before me, maybe.’

After a pause, Irons resumed—­

’Well, Sir, you see, Mr. Archer sat down by the fire and smoked a pipe, and was as easy and pleased, you’d say, to look on him, as a man need be; and he called for cards when my lord wanted them, and whatever else he needed, making himself busy and bustling—­as I afterwards thought to make them both remember well that he was in the room with them.