’"You’re a queer dog,” says he, with his eye fast on me, and musing for a while—­as if he could see into my brain, and was diverted by what he found there;—­“you’re a queer dog, Irons.  Glascock knows the world better, you see; and as you and he are going up to London together, and I must give the poor devil a lift, I’ll meet you at the other side of Merton, beyond the quarry—­you know the moor—­on Friday evening, after dark—­say seven o’clock—­we must be quiet, you know, or people will be talking.”

‘Well, Sir, we met him, sure enough, at the time and place.’

CHAPTER LXXII.

IN WHICH THE APPARITION OF MR. IRONS IS SWALLOWED IN DARKNESS.

’’Twas a darkish night—­very little moon—­and he made us turn off the road, into the moor—­black and ugly it looked, stretching away four or five miles, all heath and black peat, stretches of little broken hillocks, and a pool or tarn every now and again.  An’ he kept looking back towards the road, and not a word out of him.  Well, I did not like meeting him at all if I could help it, but I was in dread of him; and I thought he might suppose I was plotting mischief if I refused.  So I made up my mind to do as he bid me for the nonce, and then have done with him.

’By this time we were in or about a mile from the road, and we got over a low rising ground, and back nor forward, nor no way could we see anything but the moor; and I stopped all of a sudden, and says I, “We’re far enough, I’ll go no further.”

’"Good,” says Mr. Archer; “but let’s go yonder, where the stones are—­we can sit as we talk—­for I’m tired.”

’There was half-a-dozen white stones there by the side of one of these black tarns.  We none of us talked much on that walk over the moor.  We had enough to think of, each of us, I dare say.

’"This will do,” says Mr. Archer, stopping beside the pool; but he did not sit, though the stones were there.  “Now, Glascock, here I am, with the price of my horse in my pocket; what do you want?”

’Well, when it came to the point so sudden, Glascock looked a bit shy, and hung his head, and rowled his shoulders, and shuffled his feet a bit, thinking what he’d say.

’"Hang it, man; what are you afraid of? we’re friends,” says Mr. Archer, cheerfully.

’"Surely, Sir,” says Glascock, “I did not mean aught else.”

’And with that Mr. Archer laughed, and says he—­

’"Come—­you beat about the bush—­let’s hear your mind.”

’"Well, Sir, ’tis in my letter,” says he.

’"Ah, Glascock,” says he, “that’s a threatening letter.  I did not think you’d serve me so.  Well, needs must when the devil drives.”  And he laughed again, and shrugs up his shoulders, and says he, putting his hand in his pocket, “there’s sixty pounds left; ’tis all I have; come, be modest—­what do you say?”

’"You got a lot of gold off Mr. Beauclerc,” says Glascock.