But the stern mouth opened, and Dangerfield, in his harsh, brief tones, said—­

’You speak without reflection, Sir, and had nigh made me lose my temper; but I pardon you; you’re young, Sir, and besides, know probably little or nothing of me.  Who are you, Sir, who thus think fit to address me, who am by blood and education as good a gentleman as any alive?  The inducements you are pleased to offer—­you may address elsewhere—­they are not for me.  I shall forget your imprudence, and answer frankly any questions, within my knowledge, you please to ask.’

Mervyn bowed apologetically, and a silence ensued; after which he thus availed himself of his host’s permission to question him—­

’You mentioned Irons, the clerk, Mr. Dangerfield, and said that he sees Charles Archer.  Do you mean it?’

’Why, thus I mean it.  He thinks he sees him; but, if he does, upon my honour, he sees a ghost,’ and Dangerfield chuckled merrily.

’Pray, Mr. Dangerfield, consider me, and be serious, and in Heaven’s name explain,’ said Mervyn, speaking evidently in suppressed anguish.

‘Why, you know—­don’t you? the poor fellow’s not quite right here,’ and he tapped the centre of his own towering forehead with the delicate tip of his white middle finger.  ’I’ve seen a little of him; he’s an angler, so am I; and he showed me the fishing of the river, here, last summer, and often amused me prodigiously.  He’s got some such very odd maggots!  I don’t say, mind ye, he’s mad, there are many degrees, and he’s quite a competent parish clerk.  He’s only wrong on a point or two, and one of them is Charles Archer.  I believe for a while he thought you were he; and Dangerfield laughed his dry, hard chuckle.

‘Where, Sir, do you suppose Charles Archer is now to be found?’ urged Mervyn.

‘Why, what remains of him, in Florence,’ answered Dangerfield.

‘You speak, Sir, as if you thought him dead.’

’Think?  I know he’s dead.  I knew him but three weeks, and visited him in his sickness—­was in his room half an hour before he died, and attended his funeral,’ said Dangerfield.

’I implore of you, Sir, as you hope for mercy, don’t trifle in this matter,’ cried Mervyn, whose face was white, like that of a man about to swoon under an operation.

‘Trifle!  What d’ye mean, Sir?’ barked out Dangerfield, rabidly.

’I mean, Sir, this—­I’ve information he’s positively living, and can relieve my father’s memory from the horrible imputation that rests upon it.  You know who I am!’

‘Ay, Sir, Lord Castlemallard told me.’

’And my life I cheerfully devote to the task of seizing and tracing out the bloody clue of the labyrinth in which I’m lost.’

‘Good—­’tis a pious as well as a prudent resolve,’ said Dangerfield, with a quiet sneer.  ’And now, Sir, give me leave to say a word.  Your information that Charles Archer is living, is not worth the breath of the madman that spoke it, as I’ll presently show you.  By an odd chance, Sir, I required this file of newspapers, last week, to help me in ascertaining the date of Sir Harry Wyatt’s marriage.  Well, only last night, what should I hit on but this.  Will you please to read?’