And Irons groaned.

’So we returned silent and tired enough, and I in mortal fear of him.  But he designed me no hurt.  There’s luckily some risk in making away with a fellow, and ’tisn’t done by any but a fool without good cause; and when we got on the road again, I took the London road, and he turned his back on me, and I don’t know where he went; but no doubt his plans were well shaped.

’’Twas an ugly walk for me, all alone, over that heath, I can tell you.  ’Twas mortal dark; and there was places on the road where my footsteps echoed back, and I could not tell but ’twas Mr. Archer following me, having changed his mind, maybe, or something as bad, if that could be; and many’s the time I turned short round, expecting to see him, or may be that other lad, behind, for you see I got a start like when he shot Glascock; and there was a trembling over me for a long time after.

’Now, you see, Glascock’s dead, and can’t tell tales no more nor Mr. Beauclerc, and Dr. Sturk’s a dead man too, you may say; and I think he knew—­that is—­brought to mind somewhat.  He lay, you see, on the night Mr. Beauclerc lost his life, in a sort of a dressing-room, off his chamber, and the door was open; but he was bad with a fall he had, and his arm in splints, and he under laudanum—­in a trance like—­and on the inquest he could tell nothing; but I think he remembered something more or less concerning it after.’  And Mr. Irons took a turn, and came back very close to Mervyn, and said very gently, ’and I think Charles Archer murdered him.’

’Then Charles Archer has been in Dublin, perhaps in Chapelizod, within the last few months,’ exclaimed Mervyn, in a sort of agony.

‘I didn’t say so,’ answered Irons.  ’I’ve told you the truth—­’tis the truth—­but there’s no catching a ghost—­and who’d believe my story? and them things is so long ago.  And suppose I make a clean breast of it, and that I could bring you face to face with him, the world would not believe my tale, and I’d then be a lost man, one way or another—­no one, mayhap, could tell how—­I’d lose my life before a year, and all the world could not save me.’

’Perhaps—­perhaps Charles Nutter’s the man; and Mr. Dangerfield knows something of him,’ cried Mervyn.

Irons made no answer, but sat quite silent for some seconds, by the fire, the living image of apathy.

‘If you name me, or blab one word I told you, I hold my peace for ever,’ said he, slowly, with a quiet oath, but very pale, and how blue his chin looked—­how grim his smile, with his face so shiny, and his eyelids closed.  You’re to suppose, Sir, ’tis possible Mr. Dangerfield has a guess at him.  Well, he’s a clever man, and knows how to put this and that together; and has been kind to Dr. Sturk and his family.  He’s a good man, you know; and he’s a long-headed gentleman, they say; and if he takes a thing in hand, he’ll be as like as another to bring it about.  But sink or swim my mind’s