Now, it was a darksome day, and the windows of Mr. Gamble’s room were so obscured with cobwebs, dust, and dirt, that even on a sunny day they boasted no more than a dim religious light.  But on this day a cheerful man would have asked for a pair of candles, to dissipate the twilight and sustain his spirits.

He had not been gone, and the room empty ten minutes, when the door through which he had seemed to look on that unknown something that dismayed him, opened softly—­at first a little—­then a little more—­then came a knock at it—­then it opened more, and the dark shape of Charles Nutter, with rigid features and white eye-balls, glided stealthily and crouching into the chamber, and halted at the table, and seemed to read the endorsements of the notices that lay there.

CHAPTER LXXV.

HOW A GENTLEMAN PAID A VISIT AT THE BRASS CASTLE, AND THERE READ A PARAGRAPH IN AN OLD NEWSPAPER.

Dangerfield was, after his wont, seated at his desk, writing letters, after his early breakfast, with his neatly-labelled accounts at his elbow.  There was a pleasant frosty sun glittering through the twigs of the leafless shrubs, and flashing on the ripples and undulations of the Liffey, and the redbreasts and sparrows were picking up the crumbs which the housekeeper had thrown for them outside.  He had just sealed the last of half-a-dozen letters, when the maid opened his parlour-door, and told him that a gentleman was at the hall-step, who wished to see him.

Dangerfield looked up with a quick glance—­

‘Eh?—­to be sure.  Show him in.’

And in a few seconds more, Mr. Mervyn, his countenance more than usually pale and sad, entered the room.  He bowed low and gravely, as the servant announced him.

Dangerfield rose with a prompt smile, bowing also, and advanced with his hand extended, which, as a matter of form rather than of cordiality, his visitor took, coldly enough, in his.

’Happy to see you here, Mr. Mervyn—­pray, take a chair—­a charming morning for a turn by the river, Sir.’

‘I have taken the liberty of visiting you, Mr. Dangerfield—­’

‘Your visit, Sir, I esteem an honour,’ interposed the lord of the Brass Castle.

A slight and ceremonious bow from Mervyn, who continued—­’For the purpose of asking you directly and plainly for some light upon a matter in which it is in the highest degree important I should be informed.’

‘You may command me, Mr. Mervyn,’ said Dangerfield, crossing his legs, throwing himself back, and adjusting himself to attention.

Mervyn fixed his dark eyes full and sternly upon that white and enigmatical face, with its round glass eyes and silver setting, and those delicate lines of scorn he had never observed before, traced about the mouth and nostril.

’Then, Sir, I venture to ask you for all you can disclose or relate about one Charles Archer.’